


Eyes Up (undiscontinued)

by CoralFlowerBad (CoralFlower)



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alexander Hamilton POV, Anal Fingering, Asexual Character, Blow Jobs, Cock Warming, Daddy Kink, Dissociation, M/M, Modern AU, POV Second Person, POV Thomas Jefferson, Self-Harm, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, the jamilton doesnt last the whole fic, vent fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-10
Updated: 2017-07-09
Packaged: 2018-09-07 15:05:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 26,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8805547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoralFlower/pseuds/CoralFlowerBad
Summary: Alexander Hamilton will be the death of you. So maybe he’s on his knees, maybe your hands are in his hair, maybe he’s taken to calling you sir in the past fifteen minutes, and maybe he’s letting you do what you want with him, but you have no illusions as far as who is really in charge. It’s him.He has you sitting on the edge of your second floor window seat, with your back to the window, the curtains open. The lights are off except for the flashlight apps on both of your phones. Nobody can see you, but it still feels open, dangerous, electric. He makes that feeling stronger than it has any right to be.(this is now a vent fic, written to cope with shit. idk.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> notes: in my experiences, some confusion on whos goddamn POV it is with second person is all part of the fun. theres some POV switches in this, but it only happens at breaks marked with three asterisks on a line. NOTE: the POV does not change every time there are three asterisks, and it’ll be made excessively clear within the first paragraph or so what the POV is when it does change.
> 
> this starts in thomas's POV
> 
> Also! alex is asexual in this and most of the time when he sucks dick he likes it in a weirdly nonsexual way! jsyk.
> 
> (alcohol warning; its got a pretty minir involvement tho)

So maybe you've been noticing a little more than usual, lately, and that's nothing really to be alarmed at, honest-- don't you have anything better to occupy your time with than metacognition?-- but it does worry you just a teensy bit when all you can look at during conferences is the little motions of Hamilton's hand as he writes or the shine on his hair that shifts when he does. So maybe you've been a little bit obsessed, to the point that one day, when you note that a woman on the cover of some tabloid has lips the same shape as his, you realise you've memorised the angles of his face, but mostly his mouth. Honestly, you aren't sure exactly what colour his eyes are, even; you've never been one to notice that detail. You just know you have to limit how often you meet his gaze directly because of what it does to you. 

  
So maybe you're sort of fixated on Hamilton, and his mouth, and the way it sends electricity through you when you look up from his lips and he's been _watching_ you, but dear god, you want them on you. It almost hurts sometimes, watching him, hearing him talk, hating him, wanting him. You want him on his knees. You want to get him talking, and then you want to shut him up. You want him at your mercy, you want to trace a thumb over his lower lip and watch him glower, you want to twine your fingers in his hair and tilt his head back to bare his neck like he’s just some slut, if only he were just some slut.

 

So maybe you get drunk. So maybe you decide, in all of your infinite goddamn wisdom, to give Hamilton a call. Dear god, you could drown in his voice; it reminds you of the existence of his mouth.

 

So maybe you called Hamilton, and maybe he picked up. Maybe now you’re drowsily explaining why exactly he is wrong about everything that’s ever existed at two o’clock on a Sunday afternoon (you’ve always been a sleepy drunk). Maybe he’s laughing at you. Maybe you get kind of annoyed and cut him off,

“You know what, Hamilton?”

 

Maybe he chokes on his chuckles and still keeps going, and maybe you just sort of follow your sudden impulse to tell him,

“Choke on a dick, shitlord.” It’s unprofessional. Uncreative. You hate yourself for saying it even before the words leave your mouth, but you can’t exactly control anything right now, not your breathing (there’s no way he hasn’t noticed what his voice does to you by now; if he hadn’t before, your behavior during this phone call has certainly made it abundantly clear), not your words.

 

Because maybe you say “my dick” instead of “a dick.”

 

He stops laughing.

“What the fuck?” Shit. You shrug, and then pause for a moment before responding with,

“I’m shrugging is what.”

“You’re a wreck, Jefferson.”

You bite down softly on your lower lip, and say, almost hopefully, “At least I’m hotter than hell and could dom your ass into next Tuesday.”

He laughs, and you think (you hope) it’s because next Tuesday is the election, and not because you just drunk-propositioned him, but you can’t quite be sure. “Wait until you aren’t drunk off your ass; you probably couldn’t dominate a chair in this condition.” He was probably planning to say more, but you promptly fall off of your chair while attempting to flip around to sit upside-down like all those girls do in movies. Goddammit. “What was that noise?”

“Fuck off, Hamilton. Maybe I fell off my chair on purpose. Maybe it’s all part of my master plan to get into your--” The beep signalling he’s hung up interrupts you, and before you can stop it, you make a pouty noise, and it’s still embarrassing even though nobody heard you.

 

***

 

When you come to your senses on Monday morning, you have a monster headache. So maybe you just have mac’n’cheese for breakfast and call in sick. And maybe you just want to avoid Hamilton.

 

At eleven AM, you get a call from him. You briefly consider answering it, but the hot bath you just drew beckons, and you’ll never pass up a chance to piss Hamilton off. You leave your phone on your nightstand and nab a towel from your linen closet as you head to the bathroom.

 

The bath is warm, and Hamilton is on your mind. So maybe you reach down and start stroking, and maybe you’re imagining his mouth open for you and his eyes half-lidded as you thumb over the head of your cock. Maybe it pulls a groan from your mouth.

 

You want to see your cum on his face. You want him to beg for it.

 

You have mac’n’cheese for lunch too. He calls you again halfway through, you hear it from across your house, but you purposefully ignore him and continue eating. Throughout the day, you come up with reasons to ignore his phone calls, and throughout the day, he continues to call every hour and a half or so.

 

It’s five PM when you finally pick up, and the first words out of his mouth are,

“I got my bill looked over by a bunch of people and you’re going to have a problem if you continue to keep it off the agenda.” You draw in a quick breath.

“Hamilton, you cocksuck.”

When he responds, there’s a sort of wry, lilting tone to his voice that makes your face feel hot, “Drink a lot of water to make your hangover headache go away, and you’ll be able to see exactly how good of a cocksuck I am, Thomas.” He doesn’t even say maybe.

“Hamilton, wh--” He used your first name. He practically purred it. And maybe it left you shuddery. Maybe you’re struggling to keep your breathing under control. Maybe you want him saying it around your cock while he looks up at you through those eyelashes and makes little, submissive noises in his throat (you want in on that throat).

“I’ll be over at eight?”

You swallow, and tell him,

“Okay.” He takes one final opportunity to laugh at you, and hangs up. “My God,” you say, to no one in particular.

 

You call him back just to ask,

“How the hell will just water make my headache go away, Hamilton?” He heaves a sigh on the other end, like you’re some newbie who can’t quite seem to get the hang of sorting mail.

“Hangover headaches only happen when you’re dehydrated, Jefferson.” He hangs up immediately again, and you’re just angrier because he had a logical answer. It’s whatever.

 

***

 

The doorbell rings at eight, and by then you’ve regained your usual swagger; you’ve eaten some protein in the form of Betty Crocker’s absolute genius creation, hamburger helper. Amazing.

 

Amazing, indeed; Hamilton is wearing glasses, and you are entirely thrown off. He smirks at you in this really unfair way, and every time he moves, the light from your porch-light reflects in a different way off the shiny, faceted clear portions on the sides of them. You want to come on him even more now, and you think he knows it.

“Thomas.” He nods at you, and you are too busy gaping at him to reply as you step aside to let him in.

 

You take a deep breath. This is your house, your turf. You’ll be damned if you let him gain the upper hand here.

 

He’s sat himself down in one of three bar chairs at your kitchen peninsula, his legs are crossed, for a moment you hesitate. This is your house, your turf.

 

You lean your elbows on the counter across from him and say, smirking,

“So I’ve got a 2007 Sassicaia if you want a _real_ taste of high class living, but otherwise we can just go with some Pinot Grigio.” He says to you,

“You insult me for my supposed snobbery and then pull this bullshit? Doesn’t that stuff go for over a hundred bucks for just half a bottle?” He looks just like he always does when indignant, like he thinks he’s some sort of prince, posturing. It’s annoying, but in a way that really just makes you more intimately aware of exactly how much you want to wreck him.

“Yup,” you say, popping the P. “And this is likely your only chance to taste it.” _Just like my cum,_ you almost add.

“Do you have any beer?”

“Nevermind on the alcohol.” He raises an eyebrow. You continue, “So you’re here to suck my cock, let’s talk about that.”

“Well....” He pulls a face, and you give him your best are-you-serious look. “I was thinking I may as well kill two birds with one stone and,” he pushes up his glasses, “negotiate a sort of…” He trails off looking at your face, and you realise you’re imagining Things instead of listening to him talk. He looks vaguely intimidated, though, you think he even shuddered minutely, so you might as well go on tuning him out and just watch his lips. “Thomas?”

 

You look up from his mouth and let the corner of your mouth pull just the smallest bit to the side in a smirk.

“We should sit down on one of my couches, turn on netflix, just chill. Or you can start on your knees, I’m cool either way.”

He catches your drift, smirking too and adjusting his ponytail, putting away some papers that he had gotten out and on which you can see the opening to what’ll inevitably turn out to be some bill he wants passed. If that’s really what he came here for, to suck your dick and bribe you into supporting it, you’ll… God, you probably won’t do anything, at least not now, and you can see in his eyes that he knows it when he asks you,

“Got a window seat?”

 

***

 

Alexander Hamilton will be the death of you. So maybe he’s on his knees, maybe your hands are in his hair, maybe he’s taken to calling you sir in the past fifteen minutes, and maybe he’s letting you do what you want with him, but you have no illusions as far as who is really in charge. It’s him.

He has you sitting on the edge of your second floor window seat, with your back to the window, the curtains open. The lights are off except for the flashlight apps on both of your phones. Nobody can see you, but it still feels open, dangerous, electric. He makes that feeling stronger than it has any right to be.

“Dear God, Hamilton,”

“Alexander.” You gape down at him. “Call me Alexander,” he smirks, “sir.” You swallow, and a noise slips out of your mouth.

“Jesus, Alexander.” He’s smiling, from what you can see, probably far too smug. He can see you much better than you can see him because of the angle of the flashlights, and if you had to guess, you’re probably a wreck right now. So maybe he was right.

“I’m not even touching you yet, sir.” You swear he’s calling you that to fuck with you, and maybe it’s working. God, is it working.

“Hamilton, for the love of--”

“Alexander. Please, call me Alexander.”

“I’m not going to call you Alexander.”

 

His eyes get all big and pouty, and he leans in close against your crotch, pressing kisses against your still-clothed dick, making you shiver, and says,

“Please?” There’s still a mischievous look in his eyes, one that says, _I might be begging, but you’re the one who wants this most_.

You whimper without realising it until a full four seconds afterwards. “Nn, Hamilton,”

“Please, sir, it’d mean so much to me,” he fails to suppress a smirk, probably wasn’t even trying; his head moves just a bit closer and then he’s undoing your button with his teeth and pulling the zipper down the same way and god, that’s hot as fuck. You don’t know exactly how you manage to shake your head, with him so close and begging when he doesn’t even have to, god-- so maybe he could do anything he wanted to you.

“Fuck, why are you… Shit, Hamilton. You’re gonna kill me, here.” He does this thing with his eyebrows, a fluid, expressive motion that makes your heart stutter.

“Thomas, sir,” you choke on a moan, “why are you so set in this decision? Please,” if he keeps that up you’ll melt into a useless puddle or something, “reconsider. I need this, I need to hear my name on your lips, I need some proof I’m doing well, sir, please. It’ll only take you a few tries to get it down,” he’s been slipping your pants off this whole time, you think now you see the advantage in talking as much as he does (he’s pulling the submissive act but the look on his face is just devious, he’s wrecking you), “and it flows far better than just ‘Hamilton,’ I’ve heard, c’mon, just try it, sir,” you feel his breath against you through your boxers, it’s warm, “Mmm, god, I can’t wait to get my mouth around your cock, sir, please,”

“Alexander,” He pulls back the waistband of your boxers to slip out your dick, “just,”

“Tomorrow you’ll be thinking about this and looking at me that way you do and you’ll look back on when you thought you could ever top me,” _and wonder how you were ever so silly_ is what he doesn’t say, instead putting a hand over yours in his hair and leading you to tighten your grip, he pushes himself toward your dick and winks, and dear god he wants you to push him down. “Go ahead, Thomas,” you chuckle disbelievingly, god he’s a slut and god it’s hot, “unless you’re too scared I’d stay silent if you hurt me.”

 

That right there is an actual challenge, you know how to react to those.

“Aw, look at you, Alexander, on your knees, begging for it--”

“You know I’m only here because I want to be,” a quirk of his eyebrows, “sir-- mmnf,” you pull him down; not too far, just enough to slip the head of your cock in his mouth, and then you get to watch his eyelids flutter closed and listen to him moan as he flattens his tongue against you and sucks you in. Jesus, it’s good.

 

He’s trying to go further down, and you aren’t letting him, which he seems to find legitimately perplexing. He pulls off, and you let him go, sort of hesitant at first to really hold him down, but it turns out it’s just to beg (which of course he starts doing with this completely wicked look on his face), so you roll your eyes and stick your thumb in his mouth to press his tongue down. He keeps making noise, but that’s just how he is, so you disregard it. But then he’s looking at you like a kicked puppy, swallowing so you’ll watch his throat (it’s strange how much more pronounced the movement seems with sharp shadows shifting on his neck in the mostly dark room), whining at you, you’re weak. You’re so weak.

 

So maybe you let his face go so he can talk. It’s a mistake, probably, considering every variable.

“Sir.” He’s still so smug, about everything. “Please, give it to me.” It’d be cock-softeningly corny if anyone else did it, but it’s _Hamilton_ , and he isn’t even sincere, just fucking with you. He seems to gain an inordinate amount of fulfillment from watching you squirm.

“You’re going to hhhave--nh, to be more specific,” you hate yourself for the hitch in your breath but he licked his lips, what were you supposed to do.

A grin spreads across his face, and you realise a little bit too late that you’ve just told him to give you more detail; you’re going to die.

“I want to feel your fingers in my hair,” god, he’s practically moaning the words, “and feel your hands shake as you hold me down on your cock,” you can see in his eyes he knows exactly what he’s doing to you, “because my throat is the fucking bomb.” You make a noise like he’s punched you in the stomach; the thought of his throat is almost too much. “I want you to come on my face, Thomas,” the sound that leaves your mouth is more helpless than you’d have thought yourself capable of, “I want to see _your_ face as you look at me while you’re coming down and remember that you didn’t come even close to topping me, I want to see you defeated.”

 

He swallows, and you look at him. You get the distinct impression he didn’t mean to say those last few words.

“Defeat me in bed, and let me defeat you in politics, then.” Your hands are still in his hair, and he still looks just as hot, just as obnoxiously dominant as he always has.

“I don’t think so, _sir._ ” There’s a subtle thing in how he says sir that time that makes your cock twitch, and he takes that as further proof for his argument, _and here we have exhibit A,_ “You’re enjoying every moment of this defeat. And I’m enjoying watching it. But a defeat in the political arena wouldn’t be much enjoyed by either of us, not even the defeater.”

 

You’re too turned on at this point to argue with him, and there’s a desperate tone in your voice that you’ll never admit to noticing when you tell him,

“Just suck my cock, Alexander.”

He licks his lips, and your fingers tighten in his hair as he tells you, “Make me.”

 

So maybe you make him.

 

***

 

As a kid in the Caribbean, you wished for a war. You knew you didn’t have the benefit of a famous name or any rich connections, you knew it was the only way to rise up and make your name, Alexander Hamilton, synonymous with glory and honour.

 

You’ve had your fill of war. There are other ways to rise now that are less likely to kill your friends. Sucking dick works pretty well. So does writing. Both are best for different situations, but you’re good at both of them, too. Writing works well with the public, but sucking dick, you’ve found, is better when it comes to Thomas Jefferson. He’s just responding so well, eating up every bullshit porn trope you regurgitate in your halfway-meme-fueled attempts to wreck him.

 

You’ve almost gotten him to the point of begging, you can see it plain on his face, he tells you,

“Just suck my cock, Alexander,” and you see the greatest opportunity to use the tiredest one-liner in the history of tired one-liners. You lick your lips.

“Make me.” His fingers tighten in your hair, sending a shudder down your spine, and you leer up at him as he pulls you shakily forwards. “What is it, Jefferson? Here I am inviting you to use my mouth however you want, hell, you can shove your cock down my throat if that’s what gets you going,” it’s not; your offices are just next to each other and you’ve heard him through the wall complaining to Madison about that happening in porn so much, “just get going, already, --”

 

You groan and close your eyes as he guides his cock into your mouth, and pull your lips over your teeth. You let the muscles in your neck relax, and he cusses softly when he has to start holding your head up with his hands in your hair. You moan in response, and he gasps, guiding you down further, and memes are as far from your mind as they’ve ever been at this point, because when there’s a dick in your mouth and hands in your hair, it’s hard to focus on anything else, just like how you hyperfocus when there’s a pen in your hand and paper in front of you. You want to do a good job. You want to make him pay attention.

 

He’s paying attention, for sure, because when you open your eyes to look pleadingly up at him, he’s watching you like he always does. And the way he’s looking at you, like he wants to keep you under his work desk for easy access, makes your thoughts all stumble into one another and get mixed up; it’s acknowledgement that breaks you fastest.

“Say my name,” he says. Your eyelids are trying to close and you’re fighting them because you love the way he’s looking at you. “C’mon,” he pushes in further.

You make an attempt. It doesn’t sound like a word, but once you start making noise, it’s hard to stop, especially because of how his face looks when you try to say his name. You’re enjoying this more than you thought you would, and that’s scary.

 

He tugs on your hair as you suck him off, and occasionally mutters things about your eyes, or your lips, or how good your mouth feels. You feel good right now, it all feels just plain nice, which is probably really weird. You like it.

 

You feel yourself slipping into a daze, and attempt to lift your head. Jefferson whines, and his grip falters. Fuck, you should stop; you might be really deep under right now, but you still know in your bones that it would be a bad idea to lose yourself in front of Thomas Jefferson. You don’t want him to let go of you, even though you know that’s only because you’re losing track of things. You like it. It’s hard, because it feels so good; you _should_ stop. Should you? You should. You will.

 

...You don’t. His hand is on the back of your neck, and he’s so responsive, and he’s breathing your name, “ _Alexander_ ,” like a plea, it’s irresistible.

“Dear lord, Alexander, that’s--” you’re getting too invested in his praise of you, so you cut him off by doing this clever little thing with your tongue. He chokes on his whimpered words and his hand in your hair tightens. You groan, and let your eyes slip shut; that backfired. “Alexander, you devious little son-of-a-gun,” he says, and you shudder, fuck, this is wrecking you. And not even sexually. Not even like it turns you on, really. More like you’re doing well, he likes it, he’s paying attention to you. You’re at the center of his world right now, and you just can’t shut up about how _nice_ it feels.

 

You bob your head, because he’s forgotten about moving, and when you get to the bottom of the motion, he holds you there, and you moan, high-pitched, embarrassing.

“My God, Alexander.” You whine at him, and then open your eyes to stare him down as you take him in just the tiniest bit further, less than a centimeter, but it’s enough that he hits the back of your throat. You whimper helplessly, riding on the feeling of him in you and above you and holding onto you, and he breathes hard and heavy as he holds you down.

 

“You, actually like this. Holy _shit_ , Alexander.” You swallow compulsively, and he makes a choked off noise in his throat. “Ngh, _fuck._ ”

 

It’s too much. It’s just too much.

 

***

 

Alexander is looking up at you all dazed-like, and whimpering; it’s doing some serious things to your ability to breathe. The way his eyes are locked on yours makes you feel like the most important puddle of goo in the entire world.

“You… actually like this. Holy _shit_ , Alexander.” He swallows, and you curse. Your hands tighten in his hair. He’s just so warm, so wet, so good, and he likes it (he likes it!).

 

Then he’s got his hands on your thighs and he’s pushing away and choking and it causes you physical discomfort to let him go, but you do it anyway, because you aren’t some kind of jerkass douchelord, or something.

 

He coughs pathetically, hiding his face.

“Dear lord, Alexander, are you alright?” He takes his glasses off to wipe them on his shirt, and you see his fingers trembling.

“I would prefer not to speak of my feelings with you, Jefferson.” His voice is frigid but also somehow fragile.

“That’s fair. But if you can tell me what it was that--”

“Don’t, don’t shame me, I’m not here for that shit,” and he looks up at you with those dark eyes of his that hold fire far better than any blue or green eyes you’ve seen, defensive, but still somehow vulnerable. You’d feel vulnerable too in his position. Hell, you even feel vulnerable in your own position.

“I wasn’t shaming you, at all, it was--” you shut your mouth quickly, but you see in his face that he’s about to demand to know what you were about to say, “It was. It was cute, I guess. No, listen,” he was about to go off on you for calling him cute, “listen to me. It felt good that you liked it. That’s probably really fucking weird, but I don’t know, I just liked it. It was  ‘holy shit, Alexander’ as in ‘holy shit, that’s the hottest thing I’ve ever thought about,’ not ‘holy shit I’m kinkshaming.’”

 

He swallows, and you make a small noise in the back of your throat.

“Do we gotta stop?” you ask, maybe whining a little bit, and he looks down at the floor for a moment before smirking at you like _no, why would you think that?_ He gets back in real close and stares you in the eye and presses the tiniest kiss to your dick and says,

“Use me, Thomas,” he moans your name and lets his mouth hang open and just looks at you. Dear god, you can’t say no to that, especially since now he means it.

“ _Fuck_ , yes.”

 

He’s a marvel, he truly is, eyelids fluttering as he alternates between watching you and getting lost in it, moaning the whole time like it’s his dick getting sucked. There’s something there that’s different than before, something almost emotional. He’s sucking your dick, yeah, but now he’s having _feelings_ about it. You like that. You like it a lot.

 

So maybe it’d be nice to do this all the time.

 

The light on your phone goes out, and you pick it up to see what’s up, pulling Alexander in close against you and almost dropping your phone as he swallows. You press the power button, and the battery-out symbol pops up on your screen.

“Motherfucker.”

 

He taps your thigh and you let him up.

“Maybe we can turn on a lamp.” His voice sounds sort of raw, and because of that you have to take a deep breath or two before answering.

“I’m closing the curtains, then.”

 

You turn around a bit to pull the curtains shut, and he mutters,

“Who even uses curtains anymore, why don’t you have blinds like a normal person.”

 

So after making sure the curtains are secure, you turn back and tell him,

“There’s a lamp on the desk, Alexander.” He turns it on, and you swallow. You had gotten used to seeing him in the dim light from your cell phone’s flashlight, and the sight of him with his soft, shiny hair all messed up and his obnoxious smirk-- fully illuminated, in other words-- well, it’s really hot. You look him in the eye and have to focus on breathing.

“Shit, man.”

 

He nods. The shiny spots in his hair shift with the motion. His whole face is focused on you, his eyes are burning bright, and you want him.

 

“Yeah.”

 

***

 

Jefferson is looking at you like you’re sexiness embodied. It does things to you that you don’t want to admit.

 

“Shit, man,” he says. You nod.

“Yeah.”

 

You realise you’re still over by his desk and there’s several feet of space between you guys, which is a problem. Fortunately, you have a very easy solution. You take three steps forwards and sink to your knees.

 

He puts his hands in your hair, still looking at you like you’re the best thing that’s ever happened, and then pulls you forwards. You let him.

 

First, though, you look up at him and say,

“Make me choke on it, Thomas. But gently.” His eyebrows shoot up and you can see him swallow.

 

To his credit, he recovers quickly, and twists his fingers into your hair, flashing you a rogueish grin that you would never have guessed he was capable of making.

“Should I talk to you?” His grin widens, and he adds, “if so, what names are allowed?”

 

He wants to call you names. Thomas Jefferson wants to call you names. You grin back at him and answer,

“Depends how many votes you can get me for this bill I brought here.”

 

Political negotiations that are both riveting (for you) and frustrating both mentally and sexually (for Thomas) ensue. You finally agree that he’s allowed to call you a slut, the Virginians get the capitol, and you get the banks. Also he and Madison are gonna take you out to dinner later to work out the fiddly details. Fun.

 

Sucking dick works ri _dick_ ulously (heh) well on Thomas Jefferson.

 

***

 

You don’t think you’ve ever wanted anything as much as you want Alexander at your mercy (or acting like he is), and you know how bad of an idea it is to set the precedent that you can be swayed with sex, but… God, he’s just so gorgeous, and he’s offering, and you’re weak.

 

The best way to make this worth it is to call him a slut every single chance you get, as often as possible, forever.

 

“I’m opening every letter I write you from now on with ‘hey slut.’”

 

“I thought you wanted me to suck your--” You roll your eyes and pull him back against you, and take a moment to revel in it before you say,

 

“So quick to remind me, Alexander, careful.” He moans around you as you say his name, and you swallow a gasp. “You don’t want to seem too eager, don’t want it to be too obvious that you’re in your element with a cock down your throat, that you just _love_ my hands in your hair--” he whimpers, looking completely wrecked, and you stop for a moment to take a breath. Then you continue, “unless you do want that…”

 

He makes a choked off sound, and shuts his eyes like he knows what you’re about to say, and you suppose it’s pretty obvious. You take one hand out of his hair to cup his chin, and raise an eyebrow when he opens his eyes again to look up at you. You swallow, and say, almost gently,

 

“Slut.”

 

His eyes shut, he lets out a lost noise, and then his eyes open again. It’s like, he doesn’t exactly like getting called a slut, he likes that you like calling him one. It’s hot, how well he responds to attention, how closely his pleasure is dictated by how much you like this. And you like this a lot. You like _him_ a lot, scary though that thought is.

 

“Hot,” you say, and then tighten your grip on his hair because that makes him start trying to talk, and it’s almost too much in that moment, “Shit, Alexander,” He looks up at you with open eyes and his mouth open around you, and dear god he’s here just letting you do this and he _likes_ it--

 

***

 

When he calls you a slut, it’s fine, you can handle it. It’s clear in his voice that he really likes to be able to say it, and that makes you moan, but you can handle it. It’s the same when he says “Hot” like it’s his last lifeline he’s casting out for someone to grab hold of and pull him up with, and you know how to make him fall apart, but you can handle it.

 

You start talking around him, and his hands tighten in your hair. You say his name, mostly.

“Shit, Alexander,” he moans, and you look at him and you can handle it.

 

You blink for like a second and suddenly he’s got a hand on the back of your neck instead, and one on your face, and he’s arching his back and fucking your throat like it’s made of glass, so careful it almost does things to your heart, and it’s A Lot, and you can handle it,

 

You blink again and then he’s babbling at you, just holding you down, tense, barely able to keep his hips still, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear and straightening your glasses,

 

and you can handle it,

 

You blink again and by then you’ve pretty much figured out you can’t handle it because you’re slipping in and out of a daze but honestly you don’t even care because he’s holding you down, and whispering your name like a prayer, and then,

 

and then,

 

His fingers trace across your throat. You’re high on the moment, so blissed out it’s sort of pathetic. He presses down very softly and you make a noise, which was probably his point,

 

His dick is in your throat and you’re here completely open, and you _like_ it, you like him taking it from you this way,

 

“That gentle enough?” He says it breathlessly, and you’re so focused on the soft whine behind his tone that it’s a moment before you can actually interpret his words,

 

Oh yeah. You give him a weak thumbs up and try to smile around him. He swallows, and it distracts you.

 

His hips buck, and you have to shut your eyes against the feeling. You told him to make you choke on it knowing that it’d be hard for him to do so, but he seems determined, and anyway you wouldn’t mind it so much if he succeeded.

 

“Suck harder, slut.” His tone is far from harsh, and not as smooth as he probably wanted it to be, but it’s also almost lost.

 

You whimper, and do your best, losing yourself in the motions, until his hand grips hard at your hair and he tells you “swallow,” thrusting up into your mouth, gasping for breath as you do what he says without thinking, and then the way he thrusts in right as you begin to swallow throws you off.

 

You throat closes around the head of his cock and you make a lot of noise as he strokes your face almost kindly and says,

 

“Good boy.”

 

A disbelieving moan leaves your throat, and you look away from his eyes, your face burning. Shit. It’s like he’s deliberately-- of course it’s deliberate, this is _Jefferson_ , you remind yourself-- it’s like he’s deliberately pushing your buttons. There’s little shivers running up and down your spine, and you feel your cock twitch. Well, shit.

 

That doesn’t honestly happen very often. You might be very loud about what this is doing to you, and you’re aware you probably sound like porn, but it doesn’t usually go this far? You could probably count the total number of times you’ve been legitimately turned on by someone else’s actions just by thinking of what you were writing around the time.

 

Hooray. Now your masterpiece of a financial system will forever be connected in your mind to this moment, and Jefferson’s words, and how they made heat pool between your legs with an intensity that’s entirely foreign to you. Fuck your life.

 

Now when he touches your face, there’s a spark that wasn’t there before. He traces along your jawline and tells you,

 

“Eyes up.”

 

You make a noise that’s far more shameless than any of the other noises you’ve made so far, even though it’s long and drawn out and high-pitched. You feel warm, and everything is still sort of a blur, but now there’s an insistent heat in your core and you can feel your pulse in your dick, and fuck this, honestly.

 

It only takes a moment of thought for you to decide your next move, and then you immediately grab at his wrist and just generally make it clear you want up.

 

You don’t look at him as you demand, breathlessly,

 

“Touch me.”

 

He doesn’t respond for the first half a second after you say it, which is enough time for you to get impatient. You sneak a glance up at him and whine,

 

“Please.”

 

The look on his face is one of surprise for just a moment before he schools it into something dissatisfied, maybe irritated, and you can’t help the way you cringe at that and fidget-- you were doing so well what happened what did you mess up--

 

Some quiet, detached part of you reflects that you are very deep in subspace right now, and wonders why you’re so easy.

 

But most of you is focused on making Jefferson stop looking at you like that, most of you will do anything it takes to get him moaning again, most of you is after acknowledgement and attention first and foremost.

 

“Sir--”

 

“Are you done?”

 

Your eyes widen for a moment, and then you shut them because you don’t want to look at him looking at you like that and you don’t want him to see you cry because you’re convinced on an almost instinctive level that he wouldn’t be very pleased with that. And you feel like you might cry.

 

A few seconds later, his hands are on your face and you’re terrified and there’s still waves of heat coursing through you, but he’s being gentle and almost sweet and not hurting you at all. And his voice is soft and it makes you shiver in his hands. He’s saying your name and some other things but you can’t focus on the other things. You’re shaking and too warm and you want some arms around you.

 

“Alexander.”

 

You realise you’re sobbing and then hold your breath to stop, and he says your name again with something like alarm in his voice. You cringe and try to make yourself small.

 

“Tell me what you need, Alexander.”

 

A task, an order. Okay. You open your mouth, still not breathing, eyes open but looking towards the floor, and swallow. You take some deep breaths and choke on a sob. _Hold me,_ you try to say, _God, please, Jefferson, just hold me,_ but the words won’t leave your mouth and you’re too scared to say them anyway.

 

“Alexander, talk to me,” he begins.

 

You swallow, and shake your head frantically, trying to lean back in and just continue; you want to pretend that didn’t happen, you want to pretend you didn’t ask. He grabs a handful of your hair to pull you back and your body tries to bend in half because of how it feels, and because it’s his hand. You might moan. You aren’t sure.

 

He tugs on your hair again, looking down at you like he’s worried, and you break eye contact as moans spill out of your mouth because it just feels good and makes your mind unravel and sends warm tingles up and down your spine.

 

“Alexander…”

 

His voice does the same thing, makes your hips buck and your cock press insistently against the seam of your pants.

 

“Hold me.”

 

Your voice is shaky. He leans down to wrap his arms around you and then just picks you up, and you whimper when he starts carrying you somewhere.

 

When he puts you down it’s on a ridiculously soft surface, and you reach out to him before you can think it through. He takes your hands in his and you almost panic, thinking he’s going to push you away and leave, but he just holds them in one hand and fixes your hair a little bit with the other, climbing into the bed with you. His arms wrap around you and you feel tears slip out of your eyes to roll down your face. You hide in a pillow.

 

“What else?” he says softly. You squirm, and clear your throat before you lift your head out of the pillow to make eye contact with him which you break off almost immediately. You feel your cheeks heating up.

 

“Thomas…”

 

You trail off into a sob, and he pulls you closer against him.

 

“Please…Please,” you beg him, as tears sneak traitorously down your face. He tucks a strand of hair behind your ears and kisses your forehead. “Touch me, Thomas, _please,_ I’m--” there’s a lump in your throat, and the words feel clunky-- “sorry, I’m sorry--”

 

“Shhhh.”

 

He hushes you, and presses kisses all along your jawline. You whimper at him. You don’t know how to handle this heat, this hungry pit in your stomach that just wants so ruthlessly without knowing what it even wants.

 

“Thomas--”

 

He kisses you on the mouth and then smiles at your flabbergasted expression when he pulls away.

 

“I know. I’m here, Alexander.”

 

You swallow and press yourself against him because it feels good to be close.

 

“Help.”

 

There’s a frustratingly breathy tone to your voice, it makes you feel vulnerable, you don’t like it.

 

“Tell me what feels good, okay?”

 

You nod.

 

“Yeah.”

 

His lips meet yours and you sigh, letting him tilt your head back as he puts a hand on your waist and suddenly you’re on fire, god he’s not even doing anything his hand is just there and you’re gasping, you’re so _easy._ He lifts your shirt out of the way and then strokes across your hip, and you break the kiss, because dear god, you have to _breathe._ Your hips are moving without you telling them to, pressing against him and everything is burning and warm and you are in the middle of it all, overwhelmed.

 

“God’s sake, Alexander.”

 

You whine wordlessly at him, and he nods like he understands and then he’s pulling your pants off and you never want to let go of him.

 

“Is this good?” he asks, as he palms you through your boxers. You choke on moans and cling to his shirt.

 

“Fuck. Nh, Thomas, _more_. Please,” you beg.

 

“Such a needy little slut,” he says, tone almost affectionate, as he reaches into your boxers to pull you out into the open air. “You’re so pretty like this, Alexander.”

 

You squeeze your eyes shut and buck your hips into his hand. He tugs your underwear down your legs and tosses it to the side.

 

“Please.”

 

“‘Please,’ what?”

 

His voice is right by your ear and makes you gasp. You begin to say something, but your lips are captured in a kiss, and he rolls you onto your back. He puts his hands on your hips, which at first sends delight coursing through every nerve in your body, but once you notice it’s just to hold you down, you whine into his mouth. He deepens the kiss, and you try to buck your hips. You whimper, and he pulls back to say,

 

“So pretty, Alexander.” You arch into him and moan, turning your head to the side and opening your eyes to stare at the wall. “Look at me.” You look at him. Seeing his gaze so focused on you sends a shudder down your spine. Your cock twitches in his hand.

 

“Thomas, _please_ \--”

 

“Hush.”

 

He says it gently, punctuates it with a brush of his lips against your neck, and you fall silent.

 

“Can you be good for me?”

 

You swallow. _Yes,_ you want to tell him, _Yes, I can be good,_ but you aren’t sure if it’s true.

 

“Of course you can, my Alexander,” you moan helplessly; he called you _his_ , “I know you can be a good little slut.”

 

Your heart swells at the praise, and so does your cock.

 

“And I know you can wait to come until I’ve used you, made you choke on it.”

 

The whimper leaves your mouth before you can stop it, and you don’t even have to ask why, because he continues,

 

“Delayed gratification is good for sluts like you.”

 

You put a hand on his shoulder to try and ground yourself, and his face softens from a smirk to something sort of… you aren’t going to call it affectionate, because this is Jefferson you’re talking about.

 

“I’m close, Alexander. It won’t be too long.”

 

He says it like he wants to comfort you, but all it does is make the anticipation worse, because it means you’ve done a good job and he _likes_ it.

 

“Can you just, ngh,” you gasp at him, letting your eyes slip shut. “Hurry up.”

 

He chuckles, and lets go of your hips. You sigh in relief and press yourself up against him. He’s warm. It makes you melt.

 

“On your knees, Hamilton.”

 

A whine slips between your lips, and he has to take your hands off his shoulders to get you to let go of him. You can’t help yourself.

 

“C’mon. Climb down to the floor, get on your knees, suck my dick. Let’s go.”

 

His feigned impatience spurs you on, and you sit up on the bed, stretching out your arms and then reaching out to him. He raises an eyebrow as you seat yourself in his lap, lean against him, and kiss softly at his neck. He starts talking and then stutters in the middle of his sentence when you grind your hips down.

 

“Alexander, I told you to-- to get on your--”

 

You interrupt him and sneak a hand up under his shirt (which honestly shouldn’t even still be on at this point) as you say,

 

“Fuck me, Thomas.”

 

His breath hitches, and his hips buck, making you moan and grind back down against him.

 

“Oh,” he says, “shit.”

 

You keep nibbling at his neck, whining low in your throat at him.

 

“Please.”

 

He swallows, and you get to watch his Adam’s apple bob. It takes him a moment to get the words out, but when he does your body sings with the knowledge that he wants you.

 

“Let me grab some lube.”

 

***

 

You don’t plan on grabbing a condom because you figure he’ll probably come before you even finish prepping him, and you’ll probably come just watching him buck his hips and bite down on his lip as your fingers press against his walls.

 

“You don’t have to, actually--”

 

“Whaaaaaaaat?” Alexander has never seemed like much of a masochist to you.

 

“I have some with me and my skin is really sensitive so other brands make me--”

 

“Oh, that’s slightly less alarming.”

 

He grabs his pants off the floor and reaches into one of the pockets, then checks the other pocket when he finds the first one empty.

 

“Where the hell…”

 

On the floor, you spot what looks pretty much how you’d expect lube to look, and point,

 

“Is that it?”

 

“Guess it fell out,” he says. He bends over to get it and you lick your lips unconsciously. When he straightens back up, your eyes linger on his ass until he turns around. He smirks at you, and climbs back into your lap to press the lube into your hand and kisses to your throat. You swallow, and put a hand on his waist. He melts into you, one hand on your shoulder and the other at your chest, where it’s trapped by his compelling weight against you.

 

When you flip open the cap on his lube, you feel him respond to the sound, leaning into you and lifting his ass enough for you to fit a hand between him and your leg. He groans even before you touch him, openly wanting, and you nod, hastily squeezing some lube onto your fingers and reaching down behind him. He gives into gravity, settling back in your lap in an attempt to impale himself on your fingers.

 

The first thing you notice is how warm he is, and then how tight, and then how he’s now fully wrecked but still pressing down, which you put a stop to by pulling your fingers back out. He sobs, hiding his face in your neck and muttering meaningless pleas. You push him off of you and onto his back.

 

Despite his best efforts, he utterly fails to disguise the hurt in his eyes, and to appease him, you straddle him and push his shirt up over his head. You don’t bother disentangling his arms, which buys you enough time to say,

 

“Now. I’m going to stretch you out, and you are going to wait patiently for me to do so without attempting to rush me, because I refuse to half-ass this.”

 

He looks at you pleadingly with those dark brown eyes of his and says, in the most desperate tone of voice you’ve ever heard him use,

 

“I’m not going to last.”

 

“You don’t have to,” you tell him.

 

He gasps at that, and his hips buck. You reach behind yourself and feel for his asshole-- the asshole’s asshole, heh-- and he keens, shakily sitting up on his elbows and letting his head fall back, limp.

 

You slip in a finger and he shudders under you, whining up at the ceiling like if he looks at you he’ll fall apart. So you say,

 

“Eyes up,” again, hoping this time he won’t fall apart until you ask him to. “Watch me.”

 

Hamilton bites his lip and fidgets, and you smirk down at him.

 

***

 

You’re ready to fight Jefferson. Here you are, all laid out and desperate and he just smirks, like this isn’t doing just as much to him as -- fuck. He slides in another finger by the first one but still not deep enough, although your breath catches anyway, and obstinately quirks an eyebrow at you as he languidly stretches your hole.

 

You whine at him, and he shushes you, but you can’t just not talk, so you keep making noise. He leans forward to put a finger to your lips, and you tell him,

 

“No, I’m not gonna shut up.”

 

“Hamilton--”

 

You glare at him, still slightly dazed, and interrupt with,

 

“I will walk out on you right this instant if you think for even one second that I’m going to waste focus on not making noise when it’s so obvious you get off on making me whimper for it.”

 

“I came out here to have a good time and honestly I am feeling so attacked --”

 

“Thomas.”

 

You look him in the eye, and he swallows, then nods. He stops straddling you to lay down by you instead, and you turn onto your side in relief and nestle up against his chest.

 

“Hold me close and wreck me, Thomas.”

 

He nods, and reaches back down. You sigh, right by his neck, when he slips a finger back inside you, and he whispers into your ear,

 

“Slut.”

 

You jolt, tilting your hips to try and take him in further, but he clicks his tongue at you. You want more. You don’t want to wait.

 

“Please,” you say.

 

His voice is rough, and low, and makes heat wash over you relentlessly.

 

“So desperate, Alexander.” He wriggles his finger, and you twitch. “You’re so pretty like this, I could do this to you all day.”

 

God, isn’t that a thought. Him and you, somewhere unimportant, working each other up and then coming back down together, and then again, and again, and again if there’s time. You think you want that.

 

“Thomas,”

 

He slides another finger in next to the first, just the tips of his fingers slowly and carefully spreading apart within you, making whimpers bubble up in your throat and simmer there. He moves deeper, and you notice your vision tunneling with a sort of disinterest that can only be attributed to his fingers up your ass and the way he’s holding you so close.

 

“Look at you, darling…” He nudges his forehead up against yours so you’ll make eye contact with him, and then continues, “It never ceases to amaze me how easy it is to get a reaction out of you.”

 

You bristle, indignant, but before you can eloquently tell him to fuck off, he adds a third finger, and you sob instead.

 

“God, Thomas. More, _faster,_ for god’s sake, please.”

 

He crooks his fingers and presses against your front wall as he drags them part of the way out, only stopping when your body tenses and tries to stretch. He rubs little circles there, and you’re gone. You come with a hand on his chest and a soft, choked noise.

 

“See what I mean? Easy as pie.”

 

You sort of want to punch him, but you’re too busy breathing to bother with it. He laughs at you.

 

After a few minutes you open your eyes to peer at him (his face is flushed and he looks very frustrated) and say,

 

“I still get to suck your cock, right?”

 

His response is one of immediate enthusiasm, and the next thing you know you’re back on your knees, no longer getting anything sexual out of it but still pleasantly sated, and your enjoyment is sharpened by the fact that you just came. He’s still tugging on your hair like before, and that feels pretty damn great. You want to touch him.

 

His hands in your hair suddenly tug harder, drawing a pitiful moan from your throat. He pushes you down, and you shudder all over and put a hand on his thigh before you can think. He puts one of his hands over yours, and then you’re both gasping, choking together on the way it feels and god your hands are touching and he’s coming down your throat and you get your banks-- you get your banks holy shit!

 

Today is a good day. There’s come in your mouth and on your face and today is a good day. You’re between the legs of Thomas Jefferson and you let him call you a slut and today is a good day. You’re satisfied. You wonder how long it’ll last.

 

***

 

So maybe you’ve been whimpering a little more than usual, lately, and that’s nothing to be alarmed at, honest-- don’t you have anything better to occupy your time with than self-consciousness?-- but it does worry you just a teensy bit when he licks your cum off his lips and, with a meaningful glance at where your hand touches his, looks up at you and says,

 

“I get my banks.”

 

You. You seriously cannot believe him right now. You knew Hamilton was an asshole, but for god’s sake, he can’t let you bask for two seconds? Maybe you were starting to think you could work things out with him. Well, you must’ve forgotten exactly how obnoxious he is.

 

Just to get the last word, you smirk down at him and tell him, with an eyeroll,

 

“Whatever you say, slut.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been writing this for over a month and I am fucking exhausted, please just comment. Please.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Stay classy, Burr."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is about 2500 words shorter than the previous one, but if I had kept going, it would likely be about 3000 words longer, and I'd like to keep the dinner and aftermath to one chapter anyway.
> 
> My birthday is in 9 days.
> 
> I'm way too proud of what I did with the opening lyrics to Room Where It Happens, btw.

It's the Friday after you sold your soul to Hamilton. You walk into your office at work and collapse into your chair. Memories of Monday night have been replaying in your head for the past three days, and it's leaving you distracted from everything, more distracted than before. He came in your arms. You called him  _ darling _ .

 

You allow yourself to revel in the comfort of your ergonomic swivel chair for a few more seconds, and then sit up to pull your keyboard tray out from under the desk. And see a bright green, custom made, star-shaped sticky note on it, right across the spacebar. You would recognise Hamilton's handwriting anywhere, and even though the words sound like him, you have to reread them a few times before it hits you that it's real. 

 

_ You never fucked me on Monday, _ says the note.  _ What the hell, man? _

 

You cuss under your breath, and squeeze your eyes shut for a moment to make sure your vision is working properly before you reread it yet another time. 

 

“My God,” you mutter. 

 

“You rang?” says a voice from under your desk. 

 

Hamilton’s voice. You’re going to murder him.

 

“What the literal fuck are you doing down there,” you whisper furiously, shoving the keyboard tray back in to peer down at him.

 

“Well I’m hoping the answer in a few minutes will be something along the lines of keeping your cock warm while you work, but I’ll take what I can get.”

 

You choke on air at his nonchalance-- you can hear the wry smile in his voice-- and then scoff down at him once you have a hold of yourself. 

 

“Don’t you have work to do?”

 

He pops the P when he says, “Nope.”

 

“How--” He scoots himself in between your legs and rests his chin on the edge of your chair as he cuts you off.

 

“I have no conferences I have to go to, and I’m several weeks ahead now that I’m assured of those votes. Washington’ll probably just assume I went home, he’s told me to do that before.”

 

You look down at him in disbelief for a moment, and then pick your jaw off the floor, trying and failing to be offhand as you say,

 

“So... what, then? You’ve decided the most obvious next step is to… to sit under my desk with my dick in your mouth?”

 

You hear the mild strain in your own voice, in how it grows ragged near the end of your sentence, and so does Hamilton, who wiggles his eyebrows and pulls your chair closer. His voice is breathy, with the slightest hint of desperation, as he says,

 

“Yeah, baby.”

 

You chuckle at the sheer surreality of this situation, and then, without really thinking about it, you put a hand in his hair and pull him in, scooting up to sit on the edge of your chair so it’s easier for him to reach you. You want this, and he knows it, you can see that in his smug smirk. 

 

“You aren’t going to move without my guidance except in an emergency, and you aren’t going to try to get me off. I just want you quiet and still. And, don’t touch yourself.”

 

You tack on that last part as an afterthought, because you sort of doubt that Hamilton or anyone would actually get turned on just by sitting under someone’s desk with a cock in their mouth, but he’s the sort of person who would do so just out of defiance. His smirk takes on a desperate tilt, and he looks at you with open lust. 

 

“Of course, yes, please, just let me, I have to  _ know _ , if-- if Monday was real, if your hands in my hair will really do so much for me, if I have this  _ vulnerability _ that--” He swallows with some difficulty. “If you can still get me begging.”

 

You look down at him in slight awe, because as he was rambling you were watching his lips and his eyes and almost feeling his same desperation. 

 

“God, Hamilton, you’re such a cockslut.”

 

He shudders, and looks up at you like he really means it. 

 

“Only for you.”   
  


What.

 

“What?”

 

He doubles down, letting his eyes slip halfway closed and licking his lips. 

 

“Only for you, Daddy.”   
  


He’s gambling that he can get you into it before you have time to really question him, and it’s even more compelling, because it’s a  _ lie _ , he’s  _ lying _ to you.

 

“You look so slutty when you lie, it’s almost hotter than the truth would be--”

 

He interrupts you, earnest, voice made rough by need. The look on his face is almost surprised, like he can’t believe he’s still talking, and definitely a little bit vulnerable. You wish he’d stop having feelings about this; it makes it so much less convenient for you to ignore yours.

 

“No, I mean it, you’re the only one I’ve ever come back to, nobody else has ever, ever made themselves different from all the others, you have more to offer somehow and that’s not something I can say no to.”

 

You look up at the ceiling and blink a few times, trying to calm the heat that’s suddenly curled up in your stomach. At this rate, you’ll end up fucking him over your desk within twenty minutes. 

 

“We can talk about this later. I’ll let you get started. Remember what I said about my expectations for your behavior.”

 

You breathe through your nose and pull your keyboard tray back out as Hamilton unzips your jeans and makes little noises. He’s either trying to get a response from you or already slipping into subspace. You’re already hard, and when he pauses to stroke you almost reverently after pulling your pants down to your knees and ducking under them, you reach down for a fistful of hair hair and tug. He keens. 

 

“Your job today isn’t to get me off, slut,” you mutter at him. 

 

“Yeah. Okay, Daddy. Sorry.”

 

You file away the ‘daddy’ thing in the back of your mind, and release his hair to fiddle around on your computer. His breath on your cock makes you shiver, but instead of taking you into his mouth, he dilly-dallies, kissing at your inner thighs and the lowest part of your stomach. 

 

“Hamilton,” you grit out. He falters, and then whines softly in the back of his throat. 

 

“Please,” he begs, voice cracking in the middle of the word. 

 

You relent, mostly because he just sounds so fucking pathetic, and grab the wind-up timer that you keep in your second drawer. You built it yourself, but nobody else in the office sees any use for it, since they have their phones. All of your inventions go unappreciated. 

 

“You have five minutes.”

 

He breathes out a  _ thank-you-daddy _ against your cock, and you shiver. Those five minutes are agonising, with his relentless teasing and kitten licks at your tip, god, you want to destroy him right here and now. 

 

The timer goes off, and he sighs, both disappointed and anticipatory. 

 

“Why do you sigh?”

 

He pauses, and then rests his head against your thigh and whines,

 

“I want more time.”

 

You click your tongue at him and reach down to stroke through his hair. 

 

“Use your just-right voice, Al.”

 

“What?” He sounds so overwhelmed.

 

“I don’t listen to whining.”

 

He swallows, and tries again. 

 

“Can I have more time? Please, Daddy?”

 

His voice is soft, and submissive, and it’s satisfying to hear him so wrecked. 

 

“You like playing with Daddy’s cock?”

 

He makes a noise like you’ve punched him, nodding enthusiastically under your hand and then saying, after he remembers that you can’t see him,

 

“Yeah, I love it.”

 

It’s hot, how much it apparently turns him on to call you daddy, and just as he likes that you like to call him a slut, you find it… compromising, to say the least, whenever he says  _ daddy _ and a shiver runs through you. You stroke through his hair, and say,

 

“You know I love to make you happy, baby.”

 

He whimpers, and you can feel him trembling, and you almost take it back because wow, emotions, do you really need this kind of relationship with  _ him? _

 

“But we really do need to get this show on the road.”

 

He sighs softly. It’s almost a sob. 

 

“Okay, Daddy.”

 

“That’s my good boy.”

 

He hums as he leans in, finally wrapping his lips around you. You switch to a task that you only need the mouse for so you can keep a hand in his hair for a little while longer. You don’t want him getting spooked. 

 

His mouth is heavenly, and you tell him so,  _ Good, Alexander, such a darling.  _ He hums back at you, and you continue to play, one-handed, with his hair. Occasionally he presses his tongue up against you, but it’s infrequent enough that it’s probably absent minded, and not an attempt to disobey your requests. 

 

It’s hard to concentrate, and you’re going to be in trouble later this weekend when all you want to do is watch your trash anime and sleep and you have to do work, but you think it might just be worth it. Goddamn Hamilton and his soft lips and his warm, wet mouth that distracts you even when he isn’t talking, even when he  _ can’t _ talk.

 

***

 

Today is shaping up to be a very good day. It can’t be past noon and you already have a cock in your mouth. And maybe you can get Jefferson to fuck you for real after work, isn’t that a thought. He fills you up so well on this end, you can’t help imagining for a moment what it would feel like to have him on the other end, so big. You whimper around him, and his hand twitches, and it takes all your willpower to keep still. You want to get him off, you want to make him tug on your hair, you want to swallow his cum and look him in the eyes as you do so, but you’re stuck under here where you can’t see him and you can’t suck either, and you just have to sit here on your knees with your mouth open and wait, and it sends shivers down your spine that are intense in an unfair way. All you can do right now is want, which is weird, because usually when you suck dick you can zone out and let yourself get lost in it, but now? Now you can’t stop thinking about how it makes you feel, and when you decided to do this you weren’t expecting to have to suffer through every agonising second of longing for him to fuck you.

 

There’s no way to skip forwards, no way to lose yourself in it. You’re trying and every time you get close he shifts a little bit or praises you or adjusts his grip on your hair, and you’re pulled right back into the thick of it. You expected to be high on it, to the point of a daze, but this isn’t the sort of daze where time passes and you don’t notice. This is the sort of daze where time doesn’t pass fast enough, and you notice. The sort of daze where your cock is hard and pressing uncomfortably against a seam. The sort of daze where you make these tiny noises with every breath because you can feel the time sliding by way too slowly like his fingers in you on Monday, infuriating.

 

The sort where you lose all concept of physical space outside of where you are right now. There is nothing except the boxed in area under his desk. There is nothing except him so large and present in your mouth; his legs on either side of you, occasionally shifting closer, probably unconsciously, until you’re even more boxed in, trapped; and his hand keeping you down. You want him. You want to see him.

 

He murmurs something to you, and you can’t keep from responding, you just can’t, and he jolts when you begin to talk around him. You freeze, hesitant, and then make a noise that’s almost a warble, and swallow. He sighs, and pushes his keyboard tray back in, putting his other hand in your hair now and using the first to remove himself from your mouth.

 

“Yes?”

 

He has this expectant look on his face, and you’re just making meaningless sounds, whimpering and whining at him. He puts a hand on your cheek, and you squeeze your eyes shut, let out a sob.

 

“Take your time, it’s okay.”

 

You breathe, half-appalled and half-embarrassed at how ragged it sounds, and he looks down at you for just another moment before turning his attention back to his screen. But he keeps his hand on your face, and he’s just being so sweet that for a moment you can’t notice anything else, only how he hums comfortingly at you when your noises take on a desperate tinge, how the little shudders wreaking havoc on your concentration ramp up when his thumb strokes across your lower lip, how he’s giving you time to calm yourself down and staying close while you do it. What the fuck.

 

“I…” you cut yourself off to swallow a mouthful of built up saliva. “I just… wanted to see you.”

 

As soon as the words are out of your mouth you feel like your entire life is just, #regret. His head tilts just so to the side, and he looks down at you sort of surprised, and you kind of wanna take it back. But then he’s starting to smile, and your feel your cheeks heating up as he watches you affectionately and says,

 

“Well, you can see me now.”

 

You make an affirmative noise, and swallow, trying to breathe at a normal pace.

 

“Okay, this has to stop,” he says, and you tense, brain suddenly going sixty miles an hour trying to figure out anything he could possibly mean besides the obvious, “Hamilton. Are you okay? Honestly, seriously okay?”

 

You nod, too fast, and he purses his lips. 

 

“Think about it for a moment before you answer. Do you want to stop? Do you want to do it differently? What do you want out of this?”

 

“I want…”

 

You trail off, and duck your head. “I want to keep going and talk about it later or maybe never, how about that?”

 

And you can see it plain on his face that he knows he should say no, but he doesn’t. He bites his lip, nods, and then sighs softly when you take him back into your mouth, moving his hand to stroke at your hair.

 

“I’m braiding this at some point,” he says.

 

You squeeze your eyes shut and feel yourself getting lost in the feeling of his fingers stroking through your hair and him in your mouth, not to mention-- he wants to braid your hair, he wants to spend time doing things that aren’t fucking-- this is getting dangerously intense and it’s been less than a week.

 

The door to Thomas's office opens, and you are suddenly very glad that the area under his desk is boxed in, because if it weren't, it'd be obvious what was going on right now.    
  
"Hello, James," says Thomas, sounding pleasantly surprised. You whine softly around him, and he strokes through your hair comfortingly. The desk creaks, and you infer that Madison has sat down on it. You have a lot of power in this situation, you realise; you could make him come apart right now if you chose to.     
For a moment, thoughts of revenge spring up unbidden in your mind, but upon remembering what it felt like on Monday when he called you a good boy, you clamp down on them, and only let yourself squirm a little bit as you wonder what Madison is here for and how long it’ll take. You’re careful not to give any indication of your presence, and you also make sure not to accidentally provoke a reaction from Thomas. 

  
You hear the sound of something being placed on the wooden surface above you and slid over to Thomas, and then Madison audibly shifts his weight, and says, in a sort of intrigued tone,   
  
"Hey, it smells like sex in here."   
  
You choke, and try to pull back. Thomas lets you go, but keeps a hand on your head, and strokes through your hair. You hear Madison chuckle.

 

“Yeah, about that…”

 

“No, nevermind, I don’t want to know. But Thomas, really… What the fuck is this.”

 

You’d guess he’s indicating the thing he put on Thomas’s desk.

 

“Dinner tonight. You, me, Hamilton, and finance. What could go wrong?”

 

Madison laughs disbelievingly, and you fidget, wringing your hands and just stimming in general. You want to bite your nails.

 

“What prompted this? And why does it seem like you’ve already figured everything out? Was this some sort of under-the-table deal that you now have to go through the motions for?”

 

You choke again, on nothing this time, and Thomas stutters.

 

“Or should I say under the desk, maybe,” he adds.

 

You freeze, and shrink back away from Jefferson, curling yourself into the small space under his desk, willing yourself to become one with the carpet. You hope Madison leaves soon so you can take deep breaths. Jefferson reaches after you for a moment before letting you go, and you hear a dull thud from the desktop, probably him lowering his head onto the hard surface in dismay.

 

“Please don’t.”

 

It’s muffled. Yeah, he definitely did a facedesk.

 

“Alright.”

 

And that’s that. Madison stands up off the desk and leaves, and you’re left with a bad taste in your mouth, wondering what the hell is even up between the two of them anyway. Jefferson pushes his keyboard tray in and peeks down at you. He looks even more mortified than you feel, which isn’t much of a comfort, as Madison is supposed to be his friend; he shouldn’t be feeling more than the simple embarrassment of having a friend walk in on something sexual. His face betrays feelings a lot more intense than that.

 

“What do you need?”

 

His voice is gentle, but also a little bit shaky, and he won’t look you in the eye. You don’t know what you need, but you know what you want. You want to pretend that didn’t happen and lean back in and wrap your lips around him.

 

So you do. Except he grabs a handful of your hair and pulls you back, not very gently, and it makes a moan spill from your lips.

 

“Sorry,” he says, pulling his hand back like he’s been burned.

 

You swallow, and try to get him to meet your eyes, whining softly without consciously deciding to when he steadfastly looks away. You open your mouth to say something, but then can’t find the words, so you bite your lip and heave a sigh.

 

His face is unreadable.

 

“Do you want me to go?”

 

The answer is probably yes, which you’ve already assumed, so when he shakes his head and reaches for you, finally meeting your eyes, you flinch back. 

 

He apologises again, “Sorry,” and you hesitate, before saying,

 

“We should probably talk about this.”

 

There’s a long pause before he nods, and then you take a deep breath while you arrange topics on a mental flowchart and prepare to say the things you think need to be said. Except he stops you,

 

“Later. Maybe after dinner tonight, which I’ve arranged. I sent you an email about it earlier, which I assume you have received?”

 

Oh. Oh yeah, that one fondue place you’d never heard of before you got the email yesterday.

 

“Yeah, seven o’clock?”

 

He nods, and then looks back up at his computer screen.

 

“Mm. Should I keep going?”

 

You hope he says yes, despite the tantalising feeling of having a cock in your mouth that you can’t suck on, but you still feel like he’s moments away from kicking you out, so you try to keep it under control. He glances down for just a moment and then nods distractedly, opening his mouth like he’s about to say something. But he furrows his brow at something on his screen and leans closer to his desk, scooting his chair back in like he’s too absorbed to pay attention to you. Fuck, why is it hot.

 

You close your eyes and take a few deep breaths, trying to dissect the weird ball of emotion that’s tangled up in your chest. You give up just after making the absolutely damning realisation that his inattention turns you on, because self-awareness is for chumps and you don’t want to figure out your weird kinks any further.

 

He doesn’t react at all when you wrap your lips around him, except to scoot in just a bit more, boxing you back in again. God, it’s just as intense as before, except more so, because before Madison came in it didn’t occur to you to ponder what would happen if someone found out. It’s this kinda screwy feeling, full of conflicting edges. You like the weight of him in your mouth, but you want to get him off. You like being on your knees for him, but the small, cramped space sort of makes you anxious. And you don’t know if you like him ignoring you, but it does keep making you shudder…

 

He reaches down then, and scoots out as if to check on you.

 

***

 

You decide to try disregarding Hamilton, see if that does anything for him, but you also don’t want it to be too much, so after a few minutes, you gently twine your fingers in his hair and scoot out to check on him. He’s so blissed out that it’s almost scary, and it’s several seconds before you can gather enough breath to even say anything.

 

“Doin’ good, babygirl?”

 

He makes a lost noise, chokes, and pulls back, grabbing at your wrist so you let go of his hair, and then covering his face with his hands. He sobs.

 

“Hamilton-- Alexander?”

 

He makes a sort of strangled noise, and you try to stop focusing on how worried you are so that you can give him space. It’s hard.

 

“Is there anything you need me to do?”

 

He speaks through his hands, and it hurts because he won’t even look at you.

 

“I need a break.”

 

You glance at your computer screen to check the time-- it’s almost noon-- and tell him,

 

“It’s about lunchtime.”

 

He doesn’t answer you, but pulls his hands away from his face to wipe at his eyes, still not looking at you. You want to fix this, whatever’s up with him. He looks so broken, so discouraged.

 

“We could go get something,” you say, using the gentlest tone of voice you can muster.

 

You watch him swallow, and shrug, and then even though it kills you to ask, you do it, because you don’t think he’d bring it up on his own if the answer were yes:

 

“Do you want some time alone?”

 

He shudders, and you’d give anything to know what he’s thinking.

 

***

 

“Do you want some time alone?”

 

That’s the same damn thing everyone asked you when you received the news all those years ago, and even though you nodded and said yes, it wasn’t what you wanted. You didn’t want to be alone. You wanted to be with John. Being alone was the problem, not the solution. It still is.

 

You’re alone. There’s so many people in your life, many of whom you speak to on a regular basis, but you’re alone. Still you start to nod, and look up at him to-- you don’t know why you look up at him. But he cares for some reason. He’d lie if you asked about it, but he cares. So you stop in the middle of nodding and start to shake your head instead.

 

He draws in a breath and you know he’s going to ask you what’s wrong, so you preempt him with,

 

“I can’t tell you what’s wrong because I just can’t talk about it, but it’s also not relevant to my consent and it’s not your fault either.”

 

His eyes flicker down and he swallows, and you can tell he’s having a hard time accepting it.

 

“You don’t have to understand. I can go,” you offer, partly because this feels suddenly like a very big risk you’re taking, trying to trust him, and partly because you can’t shake the feeling that he can’t want you around  _ that _ much.

 

He shakes his head and starts to reach out for you, but hesitates, and you take his hand and just hold it, looking at him to see if it’s okay. He seems taken aback, so you let go, only for him to take your hand in both of his and nod.

 

“I’m here.”

 

And God, this is what you need, someone to just let you be without leaving you alone, because you don’t want to be alone. You’re so weary of loneliness. You make a noise that’s shaped like a sob, and look at the floor because the eye contact was starting to get awkward.

 

“You wanna talk, or would silence be better?”

 

You open your mouth to tell him, sort of annoyed, that under no circumstances are you going to ever talk about how lost you feel when you think about John, but he cuts you off, continuing,

 

“I mean, about anything. Like for example... my sheets smell like you and it’s hard to fucking concentrate on sleeping seeing as-- er, fuck, sorry that was--”

 

“No homo man.”

 

He chokes on air, and you take the opportunity to wipe the last of your tears on your sleeve without him noticing.

 

“I’m pretty damn sure that--”

 

“Or should I say, go homo.”

 

He levels a look of pure, unfiltered disgust at you, but it’s-- no, you’re gonna cut yourself off right there because Thomas Jefferson is  _ not  _ cute-- anyway, the look of disgust is more playful than loathing like it usually is and that makes it different somehow.

 

You like making him look disgusted in the other way too, though, because political success is fun as fuck.

 

“Go  _ full _ homo,” you continue, trying-- or rather, completely not trying; that was a lie-- to stop the smile spreading slowly across your face.

 

“Hamilton,” he says.

 

“Yes?”

 

“Shut up.”

 

You chuckle, and wiggle your eyebrows.

 

“Make me.”

 

He scoffs at you.

 

“I wouldn’t even have to make you, if-- hey wait a moment.”

 

A smirk is starting to make itself known at the corner of his mouth, and you find yourself intrigued. You raise your eyebrows, and he continues,

 

“Saying ‘go homo’ is sort of awkward. ‘So homo’ works better.”

 

You roll your eyes, and fire back,

 

“Too homo.”

 

“That doesn’t even rhyme.”

 

“Fine. Yo homo.”

 

“Yo-yo homo.”

 

“Fro Yo homo.”

 

“Wanna go?”

 

“What, to Fro Yo?”

 

“Yeah, why not?”

 

“Um….”

 

You feel your face heating up, but you say, 

 

“Sounds homo,” and nod.

 

***

 

Alexander tries to protest when you pay for both his and your yogurt, but you just roll your eyes at him and hand him his yogurt cup in a way that leads the mountain of whipped cream he piled on top of it to smear just a little bit on his face, and at that point he’s too focused on pouting to remember about paying.

 

The chairs at every Fro Yo are completely useless for people of your height, so you ask if he wants to just walk around. He purses his lips, and for a moment you’re distracted by the sun shining off his hair, before he starts talking and gives you an entirely new thing to be distracted by. You don’t hear even a single word of what he says.

 

“Um... what.”

 

He huffs, and it’s fucking cute.

 

“Sure, let’s walk around.”

 

You figure trying to hold his hand would be a bit too much too soon, but he’s just so small and cute and he liked it earlier. But you’re in public, you remind yourself, and the two of you are members of opposing political parties, so even if he wanted to, it wouldn’t be prudent.

 

The two of you end up on a bench in a mostly empty park, and he puts his feet in your lap. You roll your eyes and shove them off, and he laughs.

 

“Fuck you,” you mutter at him.

 

“Mmm, please,” he whispers back. Your cheeks heat up, and Hamilton, unsubtle shithead that he is, continues, “You can’t possibly comprehend what it’s like to want someone this much after a life with very few attachments, it’s overwhelming, like you’ve reached inside me and left a part of yourself there.”

 

You draw in a deep breath, and he takes one of your hands and places it on his chest, under his jacket and just over his heart. He lets his lips brush your ear delicately as he tells you,

 

“You feel that, Jefferson?” You adjust the position of your hand a little bit so you can feel his heartbeat, and revel in the way his breath catches in response. His heart does seem to be beating a little bit fast. “That’s all you.”

 

You pull away, and try to regulate your breathing. 

 

“God, you are such a virgin,” you tell him. 

 

“What?!” He’s perplexed. “I’ll have you know, I am most definitely  _ not _ a virgin--”

 

“No, no, not like that,” you cut him off, “I mean,” you lean in conspiratorially and then make a confusing hand gesture as you say, “ _ emotionally.” _

 

He rolls his eyes, shakes his head, and opens his mouth to say something, but hesitates, and then smirks and says instead,

 

“Pop my cherry, Daddy.”

 

You burst out laughing and say,

 

“Fuck you, honestly.”

 

“No but seriously I’m not a virgin emotionally either.”

 

You roll your eyes at him.

 

“Riiiight.”

 

“I’m not!”

 

Just to get under his skin, you tell him,

 

“Pics or it didn’t happen.”

 

And it works, too well, because he makes a genuinely frustrated noise and pulls out his phone. He actually sounds like he’s about to cry when he says,

 

“Fine, Jefferson. Fine.”

 

You put your hand over his and try to make eye contact, but he pushes you away and refuses to look at you. 

 

“Alexander--”

 

“Here,” he says, thrusting his phone at you, and…

 

“Is that… John Laurens?”

 

You look at him and he has a hand pressed over his face as sobs wrack his body, and you figure there’s two things you can do in this situation. Only one of those things is the right thing to do. You hesitate, and then reach out to put a hand on his shoulder and tell him,

 

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I was just being obstinate, I didn’t mean…”

 

He nods, and shrugs your hand off his shoulder, still hiding his face in his hands, probably trying to stop sobbing.

 

“Look, um… I don’t function well without clearly established boundaries, that’s probably why this is like the third time I’ve accidentally made you cry since Monday,” you wince at your own clumsy phrasing, “and if you don’t feel up to talking about it right now, I understand, but… I’m not willing to go any further without having that conversation.”

 

That picture he showed you, the one with him and Laurens, he was smiling so genuinely; you’ve never seen him smile like that before. You never met Laurens, only heard about him from Lafayette and saw pictures. You wonder if he would have hated you. Probably. God, that’s weird to think about. You stop thinking about it.

 

He speaks through his hands, and it’s only when you notice how ragged his voice is from crying (and probably also the fact that he had your cock in his mouth for a total of about an hour and a half) that you think to hand him a packet of tissues.

 

“Nothing about Laurens, or-- or my mom. And you can call me all the stuff you already were, except not--”

 

He cuts himself off with a choked breath in, and you tentatively continue for him,

 

“Not babygirl?”

 

He shudders, and his cheeks flush, and you almost ask him why not when it so  _ obviously _ turns him on, but the pain-saturated expression that flashes across his face moments later explains it for you; it reminds him of something he’s lost.

 

He nods, and takes out a tissue, so you take the opportunity to segue into your own boundaries.

 

“Alright. Personally, I don’t know how much any of this stuff I’m about to tell you would even come up, but I don’t respond well to offhand comments about Martha, and I’d rather not discuss her with you even in a serious manner.”

 

“Who’s Martha?”

 

God, he’s completely clueless, isn’t he.

 

“My late wife.”

 

You don’t know what your face looks like right now, but he only glances at you and immediately nods:

 

“Okay. Anything else?”

 

“Don’t make fun of Madison outside of purely political settings.”

 

His brow furrows, and he nods.

 

“God, we’re really doing this, aren’t we. This is-- this is a bad idea.”

 

He looks at you like he wants you to stop this, but...

 

“Yeah, politically, sure. But if we can keep it all straight,” he mutters something that sounds like  _ no homo _ under his breath, “and make sure we don’t mix work and whatever this is starting to be, I want to. I want to try this.”

 

***

 

Jefferson of all people should know you never do anything straight.

 

But sure, if it means more nights like Monday, when he turned on his TV just to ignore it once the two of you had finished straightening up, poured two glasses of champagne, and debated with you in a way that didn’t even feel like a fight, you’re willing to take a risk or a dick or two. Not two dicks, two risks. Whatever.

 

“Okay. Me too.”

 

He grins, and instead of kissing him like you want to, you hand him his tissues back.

 

“I should probably get back to work,” he says. You nod.

 

“Thanks for the yogurt.”

 

“Yeah, it’s no problem. Are you gonna come back, or…?”

 

The question he’s really asking is if you plan to hide back away under his desk, but you’re enjoying the open air too much, so you shake your head.

 

“I think I’ll go home and gather my thoughts for negotiations tonight.”

 

His shoulders slump when you remind him of the deal he made, and you smirk. He gets up off the bench and adjusts his coat, then playfully (sarcastically) salutes you and walks away.

 

You’re pretty close to your house, so you just walk, because it’s nice out despite the slight chill and you don’t want to be cooped up in a taxi just to escape a fifteen minute walk.

 

Fifteen minutes after you login to your computer, after you’ve already relocated to your bathroom counter and gathered all your makeup, a chime sounds and a notification pops up in the corner of your screen. Burr is trying to skype call you, you wonder what he wants.

 

Probably just small talk to lead into something else. You accept the call.

 

“Mr. Secretary.”

 

“Mr. Burr, sir.”

 

You hear a drawer shut on his end and then he looks into the camera. Burr has this way of watching the camera and not the screen during video calls that’s sort of unnerving. It’s like, he’s always making eye contact even though most people just watch the other person’s face on their screen. You don’t really get him, but he’s a good friend and hasn’t failed you yet.

 

“Well, did you hear the news about good old General Mercer?”

 

“No?” you say in a questioning tone, as you lean in towards the mirror and begin applying eyeliner. You glance back over at your screen for just a moment to make it clear you’re paying attention.

 

You don’t wear makeup very often, and when you do, you don’t wear much, but you had an emo phase during high school, so you know the basics.

 

“You know Clairmont Street?”

 

“Uh-huh.”

 

“They renamed it after him, the Mercer legacy is secure.”

 

“Oh, sure,” you say, putting your glasses on for a moment to check how well you’ve done. You don’t think anyone else really understands the difficulty of putting on eye makeup without 20/20 vision; it’s really hard, and you think it’s impressive that you can make your winged eyeliner symmetrical even though you can’t use your glasses while you do it.

 

“And all he had to do was die.”

 

You glance at him, and he’s looking down, probably at the surface of his desk. He seems dispassionate, so you just sort of… say the first thing that comes to your mind, since he’s mentioned that talking to you often cheers him up. Burr is a somewhat depressing drinking partner, but there’s also always some sort of catharsis involved when he’s around at parties, which isn’t exactly commonplace.

 

“Yeah, that’s a lot less work.”

 

“We oughta give it a try.”

 

You frown, and open your mouth to contradict him, but he immediately changes the subject.

 

“So, how’re you gonna get your debt plan through?”

 

You think if you confronted him about his worrisome comment, he’d close off, so instead you grin and tell him,

 

“I guess I’m gonna finally have to listen to you,” as you look through your lipsticks and try to decide which Jefferson would like best.

 

You look over at him wryly to check out his reaction, and he appears intrigued when he replies,

 

“Really?”

 

You smirk, and say, as you finally select a shade of lipstick that one of the Schuyler sisters suggested once and take the cap off,

 

“Yeah. Remember that time you told me if I sucked enough dick, I could take over the whole federal government?”

 

He laughs disbelievingly, and then leans forwards, very clearly engaged. You like being able to make him show interest.

 

“But you aren’t serious, of course.”

 

You let his statement hang in the air as you finish putting on the lipstick, and then wiggle your eyebrows as you say,

 

“Not as serious as Jefferson.”

 

Burr’s face is hilarious as he chokes on air, and you chuckle quietly as you set the lipstick aside.

 

“Speaking of Jefferson,” you continue, “do you think he’ll like the lipstick, or would the pale pink I wore to last month’s banquet work better?”

 

Burr squints for a moment, then finally says,

 

“I don’t think he’s the type to care much about exactly what colour you’re smearing on his dick,” you snort, “but I’ll warn you his late wife is wearing a very similar shade in most of the pictures of her in his office, so I’d switch to something else. I think it might have been her favourite, in fact.”

 

“Oh, thanks,” you say, because that’s definitely not a line you want to cross. Burr is good at this sort of thing, because he pays attention and remembers the details, which you’re absolutely shit at.

 

You wipe off the lipstick and settle on the pink from last month.

 

“Well, I’ll let you go. I think I’ve heard enough about your negotiation strategy to last me a lifetime.”

 

You laugh at that, because you’ve discussed it multiple times before and he hasn’t withdrawn his friendship yet, but still you nod at him and wink.

 

“Stay classy, Burr.”

 

“Thanks,” he says, sardonically, and ends the call.

  
You check yourself out in the mirror and nod. This is going to be great. You have a plan, and you can’t wait to execute it. Jefferson won’t know what hit him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I listened to Ed Sheeran's "Shape of You" while writing this chapter.
> 
> There's going to be at least one more chapter to this. I say "at least" because there's a plot point with Burr that may or may not end up happening, and some other general ideas I have. If there's anything you guys really want to see happen, don't hesitate to let me know in a comment!
> 
> I hope you enjoyed! Next chapter should have more of Madison. I'm uncertain about how well I wrote him in this chapter, so I'd appreciate feedback on that.
> 
> (My characterisation of Burr, however, is something I'm very assured in. I'm honestly sort of tired of him being the social-outcast-friendless-villain in fanfics, especially when said fanfics are set before the events of Scuyler Defeated, but I digress.)
> 
> Oh also tell me what you thought of the mentions of John and Martha in this chapter. Mutual heartbreak ftw, amirite?


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the chapter where things start going to shit and it all just stops being cute

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  ** _warning_** there's self harm in this chapter
> 
> a note about this fic btw. i originally discontinued it because... i realised it wasnt a healthy relationship that i was writing, and that if i went ahead with my other plans thatd be unrealistic, cus every time ive encountered someone who acts like jefferson does towards sex, well..... it hasnt gone well. jefferson's general behavior is a red flag. and yes, a relationship can have boundaries established early on and still be unhealthy. 
> 
> don't look for this kind of dynamic in real life. it'll fuck up your mental health, self-perception, boundaries, etc. seriously. yeah it's hot, and you aren't a bad person for liking the first two chapters. but please do yourself a favour and confine it to fantasy. 
> 
> im continuing it because i need to. it's a vent fic now. whoops
> 
> i guarantee that this portrayal of self harm is accurate and not just put in for extra drama or to be edgy. i projected a lot of things onto hamilton in this chapter; the garlic allergy, the self harm, some other stuff.
> 
> also hamilton has a dissociative disorder now. that's officially a thing. fight me.
> 
> i mean ive basically been writing him that way the whole time cus that's my reality (secret: hamilton is me) but im confirming it now.
> 
> hahaha sorry if you liked this before it's soul-crushingly realistic now
> 
> i had part of this written before deciding to discontinue. the place where i continued writing is marked with the following:
> 
> [*]

It’s six fifty-eight, and Hamilton hasn’t arrived yet. You’re waiting with Madison in the room you reserved, which, in an annoying oversight, is quite cramped, and has only one fondue pot. You used to come here with Martha, as a celebration every time she found out she was pregnant, so you know from experience how difficult it is to compromise when two people with wildly differing tastes have to share the same pot. There will be three of you at this meal, and Madison already appears prepared to assert dominance through menu choices. You hope Hamilton at least attempts to cooperate.

 

James is a broad-shouldered man, so you’ve decided that instead of trying to squeeze into one side of the booth with him, you’ll take one for the team and sit by Hamilton tonight. Speaking of which, where the hell is he?

 

“Oh, am I late?”

 

You shake your head without looking at him and scoot over. When he sits down, he presses something discreetly into your hand that you reflexively lift above the table to look at, and then he elbows you, so you look at him to say something indignant but holy fuck.

 

His lips are a soft pink that makes him look weirdly vulnerable, but it’s countered by the sharpness of his eyeliner and you know nothing about makeup but the effect is honestly stunning; you’re unable to speak for a few long moments.

 

You look down at the thing he handed you to give yourself an excuse to look away. He says something to Madison that you don’t hear, because the thing in your hand? It’s a remote, with _my safeword is ‘desecrate’_ written on it in sharpie. There’s only one possible scenario that immediately comes to mind involving a remote and a safeword, and it’s… distracting, to say the least. You flick the switch on the back of the remote just to test it, and Hamilton flinches. You immediately turn it back off and try to give it back to him, but he has both hands on the table and is engaging Madison in a casual discussion of the weather. Fuck.

 

Well, you can make the most of this. You take out your phone to hide the remote behind it so Madison doesn’t see, and look more closely at the dials. The left one has numbers around it, 0-10 in a gold sans-serif font, and 11 written on in sharpie. Probably Hamilton’s doing; he’s ridiculous. And of course, that dial is turned to 11. You twist it down to 0 so that when you turn it back on again it won’t be too much.

 

The other dial is labeled “noise” and has numbers 0-5. It’s currently at zero. You think you’ll leave it alone, because you have no idea what it’s supposed to do.

 

The waitress arrives, so you flick the switch on and hide it back under the table. Hamilton doesn’t react, which means that the zero setting is a true zero and nothing is happening right now. Cool, you can fuck with him.

 

You order water to drink, and so does Madison, and when it’s Hamilton’s turn you smirk and reach into your pocket like you’re going to turn the dial up, and he hesitates, but you do nothing.

 

“I’ll have water as well,” he says, almost nervously, and your smirk grows. James looks at you askance, and you nod, which he’ll most likely interpret to mean you’re about to bring it up.

 

Once the waitress leaves you turn to Hamilton and say,

 

“So why now?”

 

“What?”

 

You nudge the dial up to a 2 and count to ten in your head as you speak. He swallows. James is squinting at the two of you.

 

“You’re suddenly willing to negotiate.”

 

He nods, and when you reach ten, you turn it back down to 0.

 

“Well, I figure you both have reasons for believing what you do, and the problem is, I haven’t been listening to those reasons, so I may as well try that approach.”

 

“So let me get this straight,” Madison says. On impulse, you turn it up to a 5 just while he’s speaking. “You plan to hear our side of the story and actually work with us to achieve something concrete?”

 

As soon as Madison finishes, you turn it all the way back down, and Hamilton shoots you a dirty look as he stumbles to answer.

 

“That is, yes. That is accurate.”

 

You smirk at him, but he doesn’t take the bait, instead making eye contact with Madison and continuing.

 

“You want the capital, correct?”

 

James looks at you, and you shrug and nod.

 

“Correct,” he says, frowning slightly.

 

“And I want my banks--”

 

“Yes, Thomas has discussed this with me. I still don’t believe that it’s a good trade-off.”

 

You know it’s a bad trade-off, you knew that when you made it, and Madison isn’t an idiot. You can’t fool him, and neither can Hamilton. All you can hope for is to get him to fool himself.

 

“I know that on the surface, it looks like I’m just being silly proposing this, but I wouldn’t waste your and my valuable time on wishful thinking. And coming from me, it makes sense for you to be skeptical, so I’ll let Thomas explain.”

 

He called you Thomas. Madison squints at you, and you roll your eyes, shrugging. You take a deep breath and turn the dial to a 4 for a moment before going down to a 2 and slipping it into your pocket. You think you’ll keep it at 2 as a minimum for the rest of the meal, just to shake things up. As you lean forward and lace your fingers together, you see Hamilton take a shaky sip of his water in your peripheral vision. Good. Consensual revenge.

 

“Okay, James. I know, you’re in this for your values, because the people elected you to do a job and you’re determined to do it. And that’s admirable. There’s nothing wrong with that. But our constituents want the capital. They want it bad, and they don’t understand what’s wrong with Hamilton’s finance plan. They won’t understand until it’s directly affecting them. And once it is, if they’ve kicked you out for losing the capital, you won’t be able to help them. Yes, it sucks, but we can’t fight this plan without popular opinion behind us, and nobody cares until it’s passed. And it will be passed, with or without me and you.”

 

He looks skeptical.

 

“What makes you think he can pass it without our help?”

 

Hamilton cuts in, voice sort of shaky at first, but he gets control over it quickly.

 

“All I have to do is make it known that Virginia would have the capital if it weren’t for your actions. I have influence in my party, I can get you the capital. But I won’t do it if I don’t get my plan.”

 

Madison glares at the table and then at you.

 

“Look, man,” you start to say.

 

“Thomas, don’t even attempt. The both of you are ridiculous. What does he have over you that you can’t tell me about, is there some--” He goes into a coughing fit, and you reach across the table automatically. He waves you away and takes a drink of water. “Thomas, is he blackmailing you?”

 

Hamilton snorts, and you shake your head automatically.

 

“Alas, I’m too impulsive to blackmail anyone,” he says.

 

“You called him Thomas,” Madison points out. He looks at you suddenly, then back at Hamilton. “Wait. Wait a moment. Earlier today, Thomas. I was joking, but you reacted like--” He cuts himself off, and Alexander frowns.

 

“I worked from home today, what did I miss?”

 

Madison makes a face, and then shakes his head.

 

“Nevermind. I’d rather not stress over it. What sort of cheese do we want?”

 

“Quattro Formaggio, obviously,” you say.

 

“Actually,” says Hamilton, “I thought the Classic Alpine looked appealing.”

 

You scoff, but Madison says,

 

“I agree with Hamilton; I can’t stand gruyere.”

 

You affect a betrayed expression as Hamilton smirks, and James shrugs.

 

“I thought you and I were friends, James, allies.”

 

“Madison, I have a question.”

 

Hamilton interrupts your soliloquy like the jerk he is.

 

“Yes?”

 

“Has Jefferson always been this dramatic?”

 

You turn the dial to a 7 for revenge. It’s immensely satisfying to watch his reaction.

 

The waiter arrives and asks which cheese the three of you have selected, and Hamilton takes the opportunity to whimper in your ear while Madison orders the abomination called the Classic Alpine. You roll your eyes at Hamilton, because he doesn’t even say anything, just leans in close and whines at you.

 

“Alright, I’ll be right back to get that started for you.”

 

“This place is weird,” says Hamilton, as the waiter walks away.

 

“How so?” you ask him, nudging the dial up to an 8 and watching him struggle to keep from squirming.

 

“I just-- I don’t get it.”

 

You raise an eyebrow, and he glares, looking like he wants to lean in and drag his tongue over every inch of your neck. It’s hot, and you lick your lips unconsciously. But Madison clears his throat, so you decide to let Hamilton off the hook, and turn the dial down to a 4.

 

You don’t know what Hamilton was thinking when he decided this was a good idea, but it was probably an impulse. You doubt he thought it through at all.

 

***

 

This was a terrible idea. This was the worst idea you’ve ever had.

 

And the best, at the same time. God, you want Jefferson, and it’s exhilarating as fuck. And you can’t even tell him how much.

 

The waiter comes back and does something involving garlic and lemon juice to the pot, and then you remember:

 

“Oh shit, I’m allergic to garlic.”

 

Madison and Jefferson look at you for just a moment, and then Jefferson mutters,

 

“Are you fucking serious.”

 

You look at the waiter apologetically, and say,

 

“It’s just when it’s raw. If it’s cooked, I’ll be fine.”

 

The waiter assures you that there will be no raw garlic present in tonight’s meal, and you elbow Thomas when he asks,

 

“So, do you prefer O negative or AB positive?”

 

“I’m not-- vampires aren’t even _real,_ for God’s sake.”

 

Thomas snickers, and then the vibrations kick up and you barely suppress a shiver. When you open your eyes, Madison is looking at you suspiciously-- you didn’t even realise you had closed them.

 

A moment later, Thomas takes pity on you, and you exhale through your nose as the vibrations abate.

 

You might have to use your safeword. You don’t want to, but you might. You can’t risk Madison finding out what’s going on.[*]

 

Madison is watching the two of you like a hawk, and yeah, yeah, you’re gonna have to bail on this, how the fuck can you use the word desecrate in a sentence without it being weird?

 

“Really, Madison, I wouldn’t desecrate our great constitution with so corrupt a tactic as blackmail.” You nudge Jefferson under the table with your foot as you say it, and then choke on air because he turns it up instead of off, and Madison’s eyes are wide, he’s asking if you’re alright but honestly you’re fucking terrified _because for fuck’s sake, what if Thomas doesn’t stop,_ he stops.

 

You hold up a finger to Madison and hide your face as you clamp down _hard_ on the shakiness and vulnerability and take deep breaths.

 

When you look up everything feels far enough from real that you can keep a reasonably straight face, so that’s… a thing. The waiter comes back and does cheese stuff, so you eat some of that and talk about politics and do negotiation things because what else would you do. When it’s time to order entrees, Jefferson gets something called the French Quarter. You get the Land and Sea because you like shrimp but don’t want lobster. You don’t pay attention to what Madison gets.

 

The food is good. Dessert is good and involves cherries. The three of you come up with something that you think is probably what you want.

 

Dinner ends, and you don’t honestly feel all that lucid. You asked Burr to give you a ride, but he isn’t here, and it’s getting kind of late. He texts you saying he’s sorry, but he can’t pick you up; something about something you don’t much care about. And Jefferson, of course, is there. He offers you a ride, and you don’t say no.

 

A limo pulls up and you say something meaningless to him about pretentiousness. He says that he knows the person who owns the limo service and tries to buy their timeslots that are still open a few days before, since the company has fallen on hard times and something something his friend’s dream was to drive limos.

 

It’s dark in the limo, and the two of you are right next to each other, and he whispers something in your ear that you don’t really understand all the way, but it’s hot. You reach up reflexively to put a hand on his shoulder and gasp out his name, and he hums low in the back of his throat and surges against you. You cling to him. He reaches into his pocket, and then the toy in your ass starts vibrating, and you sob. Your lungs feel useless for a few scary seconds before you’re able to breathe in, and then you gasp out,

 

“Desecrate, fuck, desecrate desecrate desecrate stop touching me.”

 

He pauses, then draws back, and tosses the remote into your lap. It tumbles onto the floor of the limo, and you have to bend over to grab it and then fumble to turn it off.

 

Neither of you speak for the rest of the ride to your house. You don’t remember telling the driver  your address, but you guess you must have.

 

You get out of the limo without thanking him and then suddenly you’re on your bed with no real memory of entering your house, but it’s fine, this happens a lot after sexual stuff, it’s normal.

 

Your computer dings. Burr is trying to call. You decline the call and send him a message saying to fuck off.

 

You take a shower and take the vibrator out, _finally._ Then you light a candle. And maybe stare at it for a while without blinking, trying not to feel things, trying not to think about how unsafe you feel and how shitty it is to just be alone at home. And you try to convince yourself not to do it, but you know you’re going to anyway--

 

You open your left hand, hold it palm up, and grasp the glass container that holds the candle in your right, lifting it off the desk--

 

You grit your teeth and pour the melted wax that’s built up in the candle out onto your palm. And then sob as the pain hits you, as it runs through you like when you bite into something that’s so sweet it hurts; there’s a very slight delay. Then a sharp pain that lasts a few seconds longer than it seems it should; it always does. Then throbbing.

 

Fuck.

 

You feel better, though.

 

Fuck, you should call Burr back.

 

He answers in less than two seconds.

 

“Burr, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean…”

 

You trail off, all your words colliding with one another. He looks at you, a kind smile on his face.

 

“What’s wrong, Alexander?” he says softly. You shove your hair out of your eyes with a hand on your forehead and heave a sigh.

  
“Can I come over?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comment or something if you liked it i guess. 
> 
> another note on the self harm cus i cant shut up: yes there's more than one way to self harm. hamilton prefers this way cus blades are fucking scary and wax burns dont bleed (unless theyre severe and in a sensitive place, in which case go to the hospital cus if a burn bleeds its fuckin bad). also they heal quickly, depending where they are; on someone's palm, a wax burn will be pretty much fully healed within a day. other places the skin is weaker and it takes longer and hurts more
> 
> sorry for that info dump lol, that was more than you probably ever wanted to know about wax burns.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is weird because i did some messing around with POV. the POV switch isn't a POV switch so much as a focus switch; basically, after the three asterisks on their own line, you get some words that are still second person with "you" being alex, but the narrative gives burr's feelings instead. let me know in a comment what you thought of that, i guess.

You drive to Burr’s house in a blur, trying not to blink; there’s tears in your eyes, and if you let them spill over you’ll have a hard time not sobbing. You don’t think much about your feelings, and you try not to let yourself think about Jefferson either.

 

When you get there, Burr is waiting on his porch. Relief flashes across his face when he sees you.

 

“Alexander.”

 

“Aaron Burr, sir,” you reply, and offer him a shaky smile.

 

“I’m glad you made it here alright.”

 

“I wasn’t drunk, Burr.”

 

“Let’s go inside.”

 

“After you.”

 

“Alexander.”

 

“Burr.”

 

He raises an eyebrow, steps inside, you follow after.

 

“So.”

 

“So,” you echo back, already wishing to be home instead of here. 

 

“We can talk on the couch, I’ll make hot chocolate if you like.”

 

You were hoping you could maybe just get drunk, but you should’ve remembered that Burr wouldn’t let you do that. Fuck, you really want to go home.

 

“Actually… I think I’ll--”

 

“Head home? Already? Alexander, you’re hyperventilating, I’d be a bad person if I unquestioningly left you alone in this state.”

 

“Oh,” you say, because you didn’t notice you were breathing so fast-- why can’t you  _ stop-- _ and also because you always forget he’s a friend. You always forget you can trust him.

 

“I’m not going to make you talk about anything, but I’d prefer to make sure you’re safe first if you would rather be alone.”

 

“I want to be drunk, Burr.”

 

“No, Alexander,” you see the look on his face, sort of shocked but mostly concerned, “you know I’m not going to let you--”

 

“I’m not asking you to. Just,” you struggle to gather the words you need, “felt better to say it, and now you know. How I’m feeling.”

 

His expression softens, and he tentatively puts an arm around you as he begins to walk into his living room. You walk along with him, and let your head fall to rest on his shoulder.

 

“I’m here for you, Alexander. I apologise for assuming--”

 

You start shaking your head, and he cuts himself off to let you figure out how to say what you need to, and holy fuck he’s just so good what the hell.

 

“No, it’s okay, you… You care about me. That’s cool.”

 

He correctly interprets the statement as a request to confirm it, and says,

 

“I do. I’m here for you, Alexander.”

 

The two of you sit down on his couch. Burr takes your hands in his and then turns your left hand over. You look where he's looking and see a little hardened droplet of wax clinging to your sleeve, and then the angry red line leading from your palm, down your wrist, and ending at about where your sleeve falls.   
  
He looks up at you, eyes full of concern, and you draw back instinctively. He lets you go, and you curl up in a ball on the opposite side of the couch from him. He looks at the floor, and you can see by the movement of his throat that he swallows.   
  
"I'm sorry."   
  
He glances at you, and swallows again. You watch him squeeze his eyes shut.   
  
"Alexander..."   
  
"Please don't be angry--"   
  
"I'm not."   
  
He says it in that deadly quiet tone of voice that he only uses when something is very wrong. You tell him, "Don't lie to me," and then flinch at the grimace that twists his face, trying to make yourself smaller.   
  
He sighs then, and you hold your breath against the tightness of your chest and how much you want to throw yourself into his arms and cry.   
  
"I'm not angry with you."   
  
He puts emphasis on the word 'you' which is reassuring. He's admitting he's angry but it's at someone else. Okay. Maybe you didn't fuck up so bad.

 

“I’m sorry.” 

 

“Stop apologising,” he snaps, and then pinches the bridge of his nose as he leans forwards to rest his elbows on his knees and continues, before you can say anything, “I mean, you don’t need to apologise. Sorry, I mean. I know it’s harder than that. I didn’t mean to raise my voice.”

 

You swallow, and apologise again, but move closer to him. He hands you a cushion, and you look at it for a second before remembering that you asked him to hand it to you, and then it’s another few seconds before you remember why you wanted it. You let go of your knees and hug the cushion instead.

 

“Jefferson…” you start to say, and then trail off.

 

“Did he do anything to warrant immediate legal action?”

 

“I…”

 

“Nevermind, actually, you don’t have to talk about him--”

 

“I don’t know, Burr, I-- the only thing I could get him for would be a scandal; that would hurt me too. I don’t want anyone knowing about this.”

 

He pauses, and then looks at you in a way that-- you can just tell he’s got an idea. 

 

“Don’t. Don’t say anything to him.”

 

Your phone buzzes. You look at it and then at Burr.

 

“I won’t.”

 

It’s a text from Jefferson.

 

_ <I’m sorry> _ it says. You aren’t at all surprised that he’s the type of person to keep autocaps on. He continues,

 

_ <I didn’t mean to turn it up at first, I got the directions mixed up> _

 

_ <okay> _ you reply.

 

_ <And in the limo> _

_ <That was a jerk move> _

_ <I should’ve just turned it off instead of pitching a fit> _

_ <I’m sorry> _

 

You type out  _ <i cant talk right now> _ then backspace it to crytype it instead because you really just don’t want to deal with him right now. Except it occurs to you that that’s kind of shitty and manipulative, so you retype it a final time with correct spelling, and hit send.

 

_ <Later?> _ he asks. 

 

_ <i dunno> _

 

“Was that Jefferson,” says Burr, voice quiet, like he already knows the answer.

 

You nod.

 

“Do you want to talk about it?”

 

You swallow, and start bouncing your leg, then tell him,

 

“I don’t think I can say the words out loud.”

 

Your voice is shaky, distressed. You hug the cushion tighter.

 

“That’s alright.”

 

“Could I… If I typed it on my phone,”

 

You stop, and look at him, feeling like a burden, like if you ask him for anything, you’re being annoying, like if you even fully articulate the question--

 

“Sure, that would work.”

 

“Okay,” you say, and then, softly, “Sorry.”

 

He moves to lean more into the corner of the couch, puts his arm along the top of it like he wants you to scoot in closer against him, but what if you’re wrong and he just wants more space, then you’d just be bothering him--

 

“If you want, you can sit closer, but if you’d rather have space--”

 

Before he can even finish, you scoot over to be next to him, and when his arm falls around your shoulders and hugs you close, you sob. 

 

“You don’t have to be okay.”

 

You blink back tears and nod silently, then take your phone out and start typing.

 

_ <he… i wow this is awkward to talk about but what it comes down to is he didnt listen when i said stop. i mean he did but not immediately. like he wasnt taking it seriously.> _

 

You feel Burr wince behind you, which makes you sort of self-conscious. He notices you curling in on yourself and hugs you tighter.

 

***

 

“I’m so sorry,” he tells you, unsure what else to say. When you respond,

 

“It’s fine,” he can tell you’re lying, but he doesn’t mention it for fear of upsetting you; you’re already largely nonverbal, and he doesn’t want to make things worse.

 

So he just holds you against him and watches as you type out more.

 

_ <i dont know what to do because hes really hot and really good at it but it doesnt feel like he actually respects me> _

 

“Would you like my thoughts on the matter?”

 

He watches your face out of the corner of his eye as you consider, and then when you nod, he takes a deep breath before saying,

 

“I think you deserve to have your boundaries respected, and that Jefferson likely won’t ever do that sufficiently.”

 

His voice breaks, and he swallows.

 

_ <i know but i dont want him to win is the thing.> _

 

When he reads that, it’s all he can do to keep from putting both arms around you and hugging you close.

 

“Alexander, you don’t have to win,” he says, and means it. “This isn’t a game. I know Jefferson treats it like one, but that doesn’t make it so.”

 

You make a confused noise, so he clarifies,

 

“This is your life and Jefferson can’t win because he’s not important enough.”

 

He knows he’s not really making sense, but he can’t think of a better way to put it. You nod, though, and snuggle in closer against him, so he figures he explained it okay.

 

“Alexander, would you like to stay the night?”

 

“...Can I?” you say, after a long pause. He smiles at you and says,

 

“Of course.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading, and feedback is always appreciated!


	5. Hurricane and We Know, in that order.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no plans after next chapter.

“Alexander--”

 

He called you in the middle of the night for some reason.

 

“Jefferson--”

 

You’ve been interrupting each other for quite some time.

 

“Listen to me, for fuck’s--”

 

He sounds drunk.

 

“You mean like you did for me Friday night?”

 

“That wasn’t--”

 

You choke on a sob. You can hear tears in his voice too.

 

“You’re right, it wasn’t. Now remind me again how you didn’t mean to--”

 

“Alex, please--”

 

“I’m not--”

 

“ _ please-- _ ”

 

“I don’t have to give you another chance--”

 

“I know--”

 

“Do you?”

 

“Yes, I do, I’m sorry, fuck, I  _ care _ about you--”

 

“Not enough.”

 

“What?”

 

“I mean, not enough to respect me. Or maybe you don’t respect me  _ because _ you care about me--”

 

“no,”

 

“Actually I’m pretty  _ damn _ sure that’s the reason--”

 

“It’s not.”

 

“Then what the fuck is?”

 

One of you coughs into the small silence.

 

“...I don’t know.”

 

“You--”

 

“I’m sorry--”

 

“Fuck off--”

 

“I’m so sorry--”

 

“You  _ aren’t-- _ ”

 

“I  _ am, _ Alexander, I wish I was dead.”

 

A slight pause.

 

“I wish you were too.”

 

Someone sobs. Maybe both of you.

 

“Glad we can agree on something, then.”

 

A long silence. The sound of two people struggling just to breathe evenly. Then,

 

“I-- are you okay? I didn’t mean--”

 

“I didn’t either. It’s okay.”

 

“I’ll see you on Monday?”

 

A hitched breath; you don’t even know who is saying what anymore.

 

“See you.”

 

You hang up.

 

***

 

“Hello?”

 

“Stop trying to guilt me into forgiving you.”

 

***

 

“Hamilton.”

 

He’s using his curt, there’s-people-around-us voice, but you’re pretty sure the whole office is silent, has been for the past… What time is it? Doesn’t matter, you have a bill to redraft--

 

“ _ Hamilton.” _

 

“What,” you say, and then promptly stop listening. Hmm… Maybe if you change “take responsibility for all state debt” to “assume state debt” it won’t sound so--

 

“For fuck’s sake, are you even listening to me?”

 

“No,” you say, and tune him out again. He makes some yelly noises, whatever. 

 

“You need to eat.”

 

“No I don’t--” your stomach growls. “Fuck you.”

 

“Hah.”

 

You glance at him and he’s got this obnoxious, terribly self-satisfied smirk on his face.

 

“Fuck  _ off _ ,” you amend. “I’m working.”

 

“What pizza toppings do you want?”

 

“I said fuck off.”

 

“Pineapple it is.”

 

“I’ll shove it up your ass.”

 

He throws his head back and laughs at you.

 

“Pineapple and chocolate.”

 

“An abomination.”

 

“Pineapple, chocolate, and ketchup.”

 

Your lip curls without your permission, and then suddenly you’re laughing. Fuck. Fuck Jefferson. What an asshole. The expression on his face is honestly, sincerely joyous, like a weight is lifting off his shoulders, so you tell him,

 

“This isn’t an everything’s fine laugh, this is an I’m-fucking-exhausted-and-you’re-making-me-question-whether-or-not-my-existence-is-real laugh.”

 

His face falls.

 

“Yeah, I’ll just get pepperoni.”

 

“Pepperoni is just useless little discs, get sausage and then stuff it up your ass.”

 

You’re proud of that innuendo.

 

“Mac n cheese pizza exists in this city, you know,” he says indignantly.

 

“Go ahead. I’m not eating anything you get me, asshole, you’ll just hold it over my head later.”

 

“What? Why the hell would I--”

 

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” you mutter, ignoring how he sounded genuinely hurt and confused just then. 

 

“I’ve never--”

 

“Not you,” you say, exasperated. “People. In general.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“Everyone always wants  _ something. _ Either it’s sex or it’s kids or it’s to call me a slut, what the fuck.” You’re talking about John, Eliza, and Jefferson, respectively. “It’s ‘Alex, I’ve saved your damn life multiple times,’ or it’s ‘I’ve been dating you for five years and I don’t want to die childless, do you even plan to marry me?’ or ‘Hey, at least you get your  _ fucking banks! _ ’ Whatever, Jefferson. Whatever.” You’re yelling now.

 

“I--”

 

“I just.” You cut yourself off, and collapse back into your chair. You don’t remember standing up. “And I only  _ miss _ the people I didn’t have the strength to say no to.” Your voice breaks as you say it. You hide your face in your arms and rest your head on your desk as your start sobbing.

 

“I-- Alexander?”

 

You shake your head.

 

“I want to help.”

 

“Then leave.”

 

He leaves.  

 

***

 

“Alexander?”

 

You sit bolt upright, and sigh as at least half the tension leaves your body. 

 

“Aaron Burr, Sir.”

 

You have no idea how he knew to come here, but you’re glad he is; Jefferson is a jerk.

 

“Jefferson called me.”

 

Oh. You feel your face closing off, and you look back down at your papers and try to focus on them.

 

“I’m fine.”

 

“What’d he say?” If you looked up at him, he’d probably have this concerned look on his face, the one he always does when he has to do this bullshit where he drives to where you are and comforts you, and honestly you feel so shitty that he has to do this.

 

“Nothing much,” you tell him, but your resolve is slipping; he always knows how to get you to talk. You guess you don’t hate him for it, because he only does it when you need it; never for himself.

 

“What’d  _ you _ say?”

 

You snort, then, and grin wryly at him.

 

“Told him I’d shove some pineapple pizza up his ass.”

 

He raises an eyebrow.

 

“You’re aware you have another three days to finish revising that bill that you appear to be about three quarters of the way through?”

 

You frown at him.

 

“So?”

 

“If you starve to death before then, you won’t be able to get it through Congress.”

 

You pause for a long moment, and then mutter.

 

“Fuck… Okay.”

 

“Is it safe to assume you aren’t in the mood for pizza?”

 

You grin at him.

 

“I want ice cream.”

 

“No.”

 

“What, --” You start into a whining tirade, but he interrupts you after just one word.

 

“You haven’t eaten all day. Eat something else first.”

 

“Gummy bears.” You wiggle your eyebrows.

 

“Alexander--”

 

“Chocolate pudding.”

 

“I--”

 

“An entire bag of flaming hot cheetos.”

 

He pauses, and it’s with some apprehension that you refrain from interrupting him as soon as he starts talking again.

 

“As it happens…” He smirks at you.

 

“...What?!”

 

You get impatient.

 

“I made flaming hot cheeto casserole for dinner tonight, and I have some left over.”

 

Your jaw drops.

 

“You’re kidding.”

 

“No, I’m not. I also have ice cream.”

 

“Burr?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“I love you.”

 

He laughs, then, but not in a mean way.

 

“I should hope so,” he replies, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. You snort.

 

“Seriously, though.”

 

“Yeah,” he says, still smiling. “Same.”

 

“We get it, you’ve got self-esteem.”

 

“No, I mean--”

 

“I know.”

 

He shakes his head at you, but you can tell it’s affectionate, and the whole walk to his car after you pack your stuff up, and the whole ride to his house, the two of you exchange witty jokes and general banter, and god, you’re glad he exists. Without him, you’d be utterly, entirely lost. 

 

***

 

“Wow.  _ Wow, _ Burr. Is this real?”

 

You shovel another bite of the casserole into your mouth and begin to talk again, but he glares at you (amused, though, too) so you just start chewing really fast instead. 

 

“I’ll wait for you to chew, Alexander, there’s no hurry.”

 

“I don’t like silence,” you tell him, once you swallow.

 

“Not even for just a moment?”

 

You shake your head and take another bite. 

 

“Can I ask why not?”

 

“Feels like, the calm before the storm, the eye of a hurricane.”

 

“...Oh.” Then softer: “ _ Oh.” _

 

The next time you take a bite, he explains that the recipe was inspired by potato chip casserole, and for the whole rest of the time you’re eating, he fills up the silence. You start taking your time chewing.

 

“I’m going to go get the ice cream,” he says once you’ve cleared your plate, scooting his chair out and standing up. “Will you be okay?”

 

You hesitate, but don’t want to be annoying (it’s a slippery slope, having friends), so you nod and grin at him.

 

“Yup!”

 

As soon as he leaves the room, you start bouncing your leg. You forget to check your watch until long enough afterwards that you aren’t sure how long it’s been, which, frankly, sucks. You start checking your watch every thirty or so seconds and forget what the time was when you first looked at it. Whee. Should he be taking this long just to get ice cream? Is he actually even taking a long time, or is it just you, being ridiculous and overly emotional?

 

You can tell he knows you were lying about being fine when he comes back in with the ice cream. You duck your head.

 

“Would you like to watch a movie?”

 

You perk up some as he scoops ice cream into two bowls, but then deflate again.

 

“It’s really late.”

 

“I’m aware,” he says drily. 

 

“We have work tomorrow.”

 

“I know.”

 

“...We should sleep.”

 

He smiles at you, and pushes your bowl across the table to you.

 

“After the ice cream, then.”

 

You nod.

 

***

 

You arch your back and curl your toes as, as the goddamn wax-- why did you let him get you in this position, why did you, why’d you not say no-- as the goddamn  _ fucking _ wax pools right where your hip meets your leg and you clench your teeth and breathe hard through your mouth and--

 

“Gorgeous.”

 

How did he know to ask this of you? Did… did he ask? You have  _ no _ idea how you got here, no idea what time it is, no idea what led up to this-- you remember him taking your glasses off and reaching after them and he pressed your wrists into the mattress above your head with one hand, tucked your glasses into his shirt pocket, and told you to stay. You don’t know about after that. You flex your wrists experimentally and feel rope. Mmm, fuck. You open your mouth to say words and that’s when you know you’re really fucked; nothing comes out. Do you have a safeword? Is the one you were using earlier still in place? Oh god, oh god, oh god.

 

You are tied down. And panicking. And nonverbal. And there’s Jefferson poised above you with a mug of wax in his hand.

 

This isn’t real, you decide.

 

Except it is real. And you have no way to make him stop.

 

“Can I get a colour?”

 

Oh, thank fuck.

 

You make a desperate, gasping, panicked noise, and whine at him, and hope he understands. God, you don’t feel safe, you don’t feel safe at all and this is so shitty. You look him in the eye and you can see him  _ thinking _ about it.

 

He reaches over and unties your hands. You turn over, and curl up, hiding as well as you can.

 

“Alexander?”

 

You sob.

 

“I’ll go get, um…”

 

He just wants to be somewhere else so he doesn’t have to look at you hurting. You let him trail off and leave.

 

You shouldn’t have let him in your house.

 

When you feel like you can move, you get up, strip the sheets off your bed, and carry them into your laundry room. 

 

“Alexander?”

 

“Why are you still in my house?”

 

“Shouldn’t we talk about this--”

 

“Sure, maybe if I could fucking  _ remember _ how that even happened that’d be great.”

 

“Wh--”   
  


“Listen up, Jefferson. I revoke all consent, implied or otherwise, for anything we might do together in the future, and further invalidate any consent given for any reason on the grounds that one, I don’t remember what happened leading up to this which means I was  _ not _ in a good mental state and therefore incapable of consenting; two, this kind of sexual interaction isn’t doing anything besides fucking me up and I’d like to be able to think of  _ myself _ as more than this; three--”

 

“Write it down, Alexander, you’re talking too fast.”

 

“Fuck you. Three, you have demonstrated multiple times that you cannot respect my boundaries despite multiple chances to do so; four, ”

 

“Should I--”

 

“Get out of my house.”

 

“Okay, okay, I’m going.”

 

***

 

“Alexander--”

 

“I’m fine,” you say automatically.

 

“You aren’t.”

 

“Burr--”

 

“You need to stop seeing him.”

 

“It’s not your--”

 

“You’re falling to pieces.”

 

“I’m  _ fine-- _ ”

 

“Madison agrees with me.”

 

You pause then, because you’re afraid to ask. You take a deep breath, and when you speak, you hear the agitation in your own voice.

 

“You told  _ James Madison?!” _

 

“Jefferson did. Honestly.”

 

“I can’t believe you’re cavorting with--”

 

“That’s not even what cavorting means, would you just fucking listen to me?”

 

“Fine.”

 

***

 

“Oh, so you tell me stop seeing Jefferson and then immediately take me to see him. Real classy, Burr.” You are shaking, with rage and something else.

 

“Madison is here too,” he says mildly.

 

“What is this?” asks Jefferson into the silence.

 

“We know,” Burr tells him. 

 

“Whaaaaaat?”

 

***

 

The next thing you know, it is Thursday and there are reporters everywhere at work. You call in sick. Jefferson stepped down. He also came clean. To the public.

 

Yeah, you want to die. Every damn TV channel is showing the same live interview of him, 

 

“Mr. Jefferson, is it true you and Secretary Hamilton engaged in--”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Did you force him into it?”

 

“If I had he would’ve already published a novel on the subject, wouldn’t you say?”

 

“But he isn’t showing up at his office, and--”

  
Jefferson stares directly at the camera as he answers. “I’ll repeat. Why doesn’t he just write about it, then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've already started writing the next chapter, and comments provide most of my encouragement. You'll likely get another chapter sooner if you comment, is what I'm trying to say. Please comment.
> 
> Also, how about the ending here? Any guesses as to what comes next? (I've had the last line written since chapter three was posted)


	6. An Appeal to the Public With Regards to the Relationship Between Myself and Former Secretary of State Thomas Jefferson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> warning for non-graphic but pretty clearly outlined rape in this chapter. yeah. the shit before that is fine ig.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i forgot to take my adhd meds for a whole week straight and im suffering. if my responses to the comments i got to seem flat and emotionless, thats probably why.

You look up. There’s Starbucks on the edge of your desk. Burr must have left it; funny, he’d usually stick around to chat. Maybe he tried and you just tuned him out. You’ll have to apologise later. At the moment, though, you’re staring at where you’ve written whatever came to mind, trying to turn it into something publishable.

 

_First of all, he’s pretty goddamn easy??? He traded my plan for the capitol and the right to call me a slut whenever, which I attempted to revoke consent for, but I don’t have high hopes that he’ll listen. My point is, he’s easily corruptible. So corrupt. You wouldn’t fuckin believe it, guys. This all started when he drunk called me and told me to suck his dick. And I, being the decent human being that I am, told him no goddamn way, youre drunk man, maybe tomorrow._

 

_so that was sunday, and then monday he doesnt show up at work so i call him like fifteen times and when he finally answers we bicker or something and i tell him im gonna come over at i think seven or something? idk. he didnt really respond so._

 

_yeah so i show up. he offers me this pretentious as fuck shitty wine or something which, wow, hypocrite, how much does that even fucking cost, yknow?_

 

_so then i suck his dick and maybe cry a little bit which he handled okay if you have low standards. i mean i had low standards at the time so i wont blame you._

 

_my point is, do we really want someone who has to degrade another human being to get his rocks off to have any greater say in the affairs of our country than a normal voter? like. cmon, guys._

 

_oh also this was like… a weekish before some election idk. its been a while, i mostly remember crying and his goddamn fingers._

 

_im getting off track._

 

_don’t vote for him. even if he were in my party i would still be writing this, because he is just objectively not a good person. this isnt about politics. this is about his goddamn hands around my neck, okay, and how after i say stop he always goes a little further first._

 

_also! his wife died in childbirth. and the doctors speculated that she wouldn’t’ve died if she didnt have so many children. man, jefferson was all torn up about it or something but in that dramatic attention seeking way, like, ‘oh if only i hadnt fucked my wife that one last time’ shut the hell up asshole, like you’d’ve done anything else even if you knew for sure itd kill her. like, he knew about this. he knew it was harming her health since like the third to last one and he kept fucking fucking her????  and even if she weren’t in danger of death, even if we assume he truly thought she would survive, a good partner would not take actions that caused deterioration in the other’s health. Which he knew would happen._

 

_and that’s just one of the many examples of jefferson being terrible and not even trying to learn from his mistakes. the only good thing about him is his dick, and half the population has dicks. i have a dick._

 

_it might seem like im drunk but im not drunk just angry._

 

You grab the coffee and are halfway through it when you realise it’s not your usual order. You frown, and look down at it. The name written on it is not your name, and not Burr’s name. In fact, it isn’t even a name.

 

You’re going to murder Jefferson.

 

***

 

It came out on Friday. It was everywhere, without anyone really knowing how it got there:

 

_An Appeal to the Public With Regards to the Relationship Between Myself and Former Secretary of State Thomas Jefferson_

 

Contents:

  * Introduction
  * A List and Analysis of Thomas Jefferson’s Deviant Tendencies
  * Jefferson’s History of Misconduct in Relationships
  * Potential Consequences



 

I.

 

_Since early Thursday morning, much of the country has been abuzz with the news of the so-called affair between myself and former secretary of state Thomas Jefferson. I say ‘so-called’ because I have no relations, romantic or sexual, and Jefferson does not either. Yet still, the country aches for drama, and so, it seems, does Jefferson._

 

_I’m unsure whether anyone other than myself recognised the direct challenge made when, in an interview, he asked why I don’t simply write about it. However, this can only be taken for the challenge it was; otherwise, it is simply a throwaway comment, made in passing to rebut an over-eager interviewer. I say that Jefferson aches for drama because I can see no other truth; the man would declare war on pirates if he believed it would spice things up._

 

_Through my personal experiences with the man (if he could even be truthfully named as such), I have concluded that Thomas Jefferson is a morally deficient parasite seeking only to gain both sexually and financially from the position of power in which the American people have placed him. He fully intends to abuse their trust for the benefit of himself and his political allies, and would sacrifice the integrity of our great constitution to further his beliefs. If there is any action that will prevent this from occurring, rest assured, I will undertake it as my duty._

 

II.

 

_It has often been said that much can be inferred about a man from his choice in bedmates. The same is true of any deviant tendencies a person may have. As a consequence of my intimate involvement with him, I am likely the most knowledgeable person alive when it comes to Jefferson’s perversion. Following is a list of every relevant kink which Jefferson has displayed:_

 

 

  * _He derives pleasure from degrading others_


  * _He possesses the quintessentially male obsession with putting his dick literally everywhere_


  * _He prefers immobilised partners_


  * _He doesn’t particularly mind semi-public sexual actions_


  * _He derives pleasure from causing pain_


  * _Worst of all, he enjoys seeing his partner in a state of distress; any statement to the contrary has proven to be primarily performative, and not in the least sincere._



 

 

_Many have argued that one who must put others down to feel powerful does not deserve power, and Jefferson is a perfect example of evidence for this claim. In every situation where I have personally given him power, no matter how seemingly insignificant, he has abused that power. I fear he plans to do the same to the American people._

 

It went on this way for almost twenty pages. Those close to Hamilton remarked on his restraint. Those close to Jefferson scrambled to defend him. And time passed.

 

***

 

“Jefferson?”

 

His gaze snaps up predatorily, and he squints at you. You swallow, and set down your stuff, taking a seat at the library table across from him. You let your hair fall in front of your face, and take out some paperwork, trying to look busy. You weren’t expecting to run into him here. In fact, you never really thought about if you’d ever see him again.

 

Until a few nights ago, that is. You got in an argument with Burr over something really terribly petty, and... You don’t remember the rest. You don’t want to remember.

 

_You can’t go back to him, Alexander. He isn’t good for you._

 

_He’s better than you, Burr._

 

And then the pain in his eyes as he flinched back and he didn’t even kick you out, you just left and he didn’t stop you.

 

You don’t want to remember.

 

Why did you say that.

 

Jefferson slides an index card across the table to you. You look up and he’s staring determinedly at the screen of his laptop-- appearing, for all intents and purposes, to ignore you completely. You flip the card over.

 

_You okay?_

 

 _yeah,_ you write below that, and slide the card back across the table to him.

 

_Liar. What’s actually up?_

 

You glare at him, but he’s not looking at you, so you roll your eyes and write, _nothing._

 

_Bullshit. You’re a goddamn wreck, Hamilton._

 

_alexander_

 

_Are you fucking with me right now._

 

 _no im not please just_ (you scribble that out and then write _i dont know_ instead.)

 

_Whatever._

 

 _im sorry,_ you write, but this time when you slide it back over to him he ignores it, acts like it isn’t there. You clear your throat, hoping that’ll work, but he doesn’t even look away from his screen.

 

“Please,” you whisper.

 

“Seven o’clock,” he says, still not making eye contact.

 

***

 

It’s seven o’clock. You’re standing on Jefferson’s porch afraid to ring the doorbell, afraid maybe you misinterpreted or even just imagined the whole thing. You take a deep breath, and decide to just get it over with; you ring the doorbell.

 

When he answers the door, the two of you just stare at each other for a long moment, and then he holds out a hand. You take it, and he tugs you into his arms. It feels like coming home, like you belong here, like you’re nothing without this.

 

“I missed you,” he says, and something in your chest swells up and you smile. He leads you into his living room, tells you to sit on the floor in front of the couch and clarifies he just wants to braid your hair before you can even get scared.

 

“Let’s watch a disney movie,” you say, and he grins like nothing even happened, like you didn’t write that statement denouncing him.

 

His hands in your hair are skilled but slow, like he’s savouring the moment, and to be honest, you don’t really mind. You feel secure, with your back against his couch, his legs on either side of you, and enough open space in front of you that you aren’t trapped. You let your eyes slip shut as he plays with your hair, and then swallow when he leans down to whisper,

 

“I totally forgot I was gonna braid this, and got distracted just playing with it.”

 

This is ridiculous; you hated this man a month ago, but here you are in his house, sitting on his floor while he plays with your hair, and you don’t even mind. You should leave. It just feels really nice to be touched like this, which is sort of scary but you’re trying hard not to care.

 

It’s a while later that he finishes with your hair, at which point you feel like sleeping, but you also kinda want to stay awake and let him touch you some more. You climb up onto the couch and lean against him and yawn. He presses a kiss to your forehead, and you sigh without meaning to.

 

“What’s really up?”

 

You freeze, and he must feel you tense up, because his arms wrap around you and hold you close. You shrug.  He sighs at you, and tilts his head to kiss along your jaw. You flinch, and then loop an arm around his neck to pull him closer.

 

“Ah,”

 

He takes a small fold of skin between his teeth, not biting down, just holding it there, and you gasp, your back arching. And then he bites down. You shove helplessly at his chest and he stops, looking at you askance.

 

“I don’t-- don’t want-- no biting, right now,” you say, breathlessly.

 

He nods. Doesn’t say anything, just nods, and waits for you to settle back into him before he continues with a kiss to your collarbone. You find yourself twisted around him a few minutes later, thoughts hazy, uncertain exactly how this happened, and god, how it got so warm in here.

 

“Jefferson,” you whisper.

 

“I know,” he says.

 

You help him unbutton your shirt, let him lay you out on his couch and straddle you. His hands are warm and smooth, and so good at what they do. You spend most of the next ten minutes or so arching up against him. He has to push you back down multiple times.

 

“Please,” you tell him, “let’s move on.”

 

“Of course,” he says; traces over your waist with two fingers, just lightly, quickly; and you shudder.

 

Your grip on his shoulders like a vice. Your thoughts, tangled and hazy and stumbling against one another, incoherent. Him, above you; the air, around you; and his hands, on you.

 

“Wait,” you find yourself saying. “Wait, please-- not--”

 

He raises an eyebrow as he draws back.

 

“I can’t, this isn’t--”

 

“But isn’t it good?”

 

You face falls, but his hand on your waist and the finger that lifts your chin and oh god, the heat-- everywhere, inescapable. And isn’t it good.

 

Soft, gasping sounds from somewhere, and the rough slide of his hands against you. Isn’t it good? Sure.

 

“I’m, this is-- _wait,_ I--”

 

The words get lost in your throat.

 

“C’mon, you can’t be telling me this is doing nothing for you.”

 

Isn’t it good? Isn’t it. Isn’t.

 

“Jefferson--”

 

It isn’t.

 

“Stop--”

 

He doesn’t.

  
And that is that.

 

 

  
...Eventually, it ends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please comment if you liked this ig.
> 
> also, the name on the starbucks cup was "slut" in case anyone was wondering.
> 
> sorry for taking so long...


	7. aftermath

You wake up at three o’clock in the morning and immediately leave, picking a direction and driving in it until you feel almost far enough away. You’re going to regret it later, but with the sun rising on the other side of your windshield, it’s pretty fucking hard to care. You squint at it, and take your phone out. It’s 6:33. You call Burr with no plan, not even really expecting him to answer-- you told him he was just as bad as-- he picks up.

“Alexander?”

“Aaron. Aaron Burr, Sir.”

“It’s six in the morning.”

“I fucked up.”

“Ah.”

“I’m-- it was, you’ve only ever been good to me and I wasn’t thinking about anything I was saying, and you’re my best friend and a really good person, and Thomas-- Jefferson, I mean, he--”

You cut yourself off and try not to think about what he did-- what you did with him.

“You went back to him.”

He’s on the same train of thought as you are, apparently.

“I know, I’m sorry--”

“What were you-- no, that’s not a productive train of thought-- how averse are you to murder? No, no, that isn’t productive either… Canada, my friend, is always an option.”

You’ve never heard Burr ramble before. You giggle weakly.

“I don’t want to run away.”

“I want you to,” he says, immediately, and your breath catches.

“Okay. Okay, where do you want--”

“It’s not about what I want, Alexander.”

“No, I mean it, what do you want me to do, I’ll do it, just say the words--”

“Alexander--”

“Burr, please.”

He’s silent for a few long seconds, and you take that time to unbuckle your seatbelt and wonder where exactly you parked like an hour ago, you don’t recognise the place at all.

“I want you to be safe.”

You swallow the guilt churning in your stomach, and tell him,

“I’m probably close to breaking down, right now.”

“Do you want to talk about it? Are you at Jefferson’s? I can be there in five.”

“I’m not sure. Where I am, or if I want to talk.”

“Okay, well, I’m already halfway to Jefferson’s house, so I’ll go there, break in, and shove him off his roof, and then we can sell the place and everything in it, including his organs. And then we use the money to bribe Madison into keeping silent.”

You snort.

“Don’t break in, his passcode is macaroni.”

“Oh, fuck yeah. That’s a lot easier, then.”

“I mean it, though, don’t mess with him. Please?”

“...I really don’t want to promise you that.”

“I don’t want him having another reason to want to hurt me.”

“If he’s dead,”

“No.”

He pauses.

“I do want him gone.”

“No,” you insist, “No. Burr, listen. Please.”

“I’m listening,” he tells you, and then your brain shorts out, because oops, that was all you had planned to say.

“That was all.”

“Oh.”

“Just,” you start to say, and then cut yourself off as something starts hurting in your abdomen.

“I won’t do anything, I’m sorry.”

“I really will run away with you,” you say, because it seems like a good thing to say. “Wherever you want to go, I’m down.”

“You told me just seconds ago--”

“That doesn’t matter, Burr, I don’t--”

You realise what you’re saying, and pause, but then decide to go ahead and say it anyway.

“I don’t matter. I’m not--”

“Alexander--”

He sounds scandalised, which is not-- he’s not-- you aren’t important, you’re not someone who has boundaries or anything that really matter. You hang up the phone. You’d almost prefer to die here than face anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comment?


	8. after the aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been pretty much done, in my head, with this story for a while now, but i figured i should give you guys some better closure.

There’s days, sometimes, when you can’t seem to figure out what’s going on or what’s happening, when you’ll turn over in the morning and see him there and just frown, confused-- how did things end up this way, again? Or whenever you see Jefferson’s face on the news; he’s everywhere, still, and you think that just continuing to exist and be important is the worst thing he could’ve done to you-- but anyway. It’s hard to believe, even over a year later, that things are over, that he can’t hurt you, because everyone else likes to pretend it didn’t even happen, that Jefferson can still be a good person when he doesn’t acknowledge any of it and still occasionally tries to reach out to you.

 

He asks you what you want from him every time, and it’s only recently that you’ve started being honest with him; you want him gone, you want him to drop off the face of the earth, you want him to stop existing. You know it’s mean, but he just keeps asking, and you’re done lying to him about how bad he hurt you. He should stop asking if he doesn’t want a real answer. There’s days when you feel like a bad person for being so brutally honest with him.

 

There’s also days, though, when you feel in control of yourself, when you feel safe, when you know that you’re doing the right thing staying away from him and going to therapy. Those are good days. It was Burr’s idea, and you only started doing it because he thought it would be good for you, but you’re glad you did, and you’re glad he thought you were worth the time it took to convince you that help would be, yknow,  _ helpful. _ He’s still your closest friend, even though you live together and sleep in the same bed-- it’s platonic but still special, still good, still one of the best things to ever happen to you, and there’s days when you feel like you don’t deserve it, but he’s very quick to assure you that you do.

 

And there’s days when you believe him, when it seems like of  _ course _ you deserve this, of  _ course _ you deserve him. Those are good days, too.

 

You’ve been having more good days than usual lately, and it’s nice. 

 

***end

 

deleted scene

 

***

 

You look out your window and notice that you’re parked at a gas station. They’ll probably have lighters inside, maybe some kind of candle if you’re lucky...

 

You could do it and get all the wax off this time and nobody would be able to get mad at you about it. There would be no consequences whatsoever.

 

You flip the sun visor down and open the mirror thing. You don’t look too much like a wreck, and besides, it’s a gas station, they probably get all kinds of people in there anyway. You steel yourself, and step out of your car.

 

***

 

Just after you check out (they did have candles, little ones, so you got a pack of two), someone calls your name in surprise.

 

“Alexander?” 

 

You recognise the voice, and when you turn towards it and figure out who it is, your stomach drops out of your body and hits the floor, or at least feels like it does.

 

“Hello,” you say weakly.

 

“Wow, I can’t believe it’s you,” says Eliza. “Maria, come over here!” Another woman peeks around the aisle somewhat timidly. You recognise her by how she carries herself, and by the first name.

 

“Maria Reynolds?” you say. “I recognise you, you were one of Burr’s clients.”

 

“You know Aaron Burr?” she says, squinting at you like she might remember who you are. You honestly doubt it; you only saw each other for a moment, during which she seemed very distressed about her case.

 

“He’s a very good friend of mine,” you tell her, and Eliza says,

 

“I didn’t know you had any friends.”

 

“Mm,” you say noncommittally, and look down at the floor. She’s teasing you, you know, but it still reminds you of what you said to him and how you just hung up on him.

 

“Anyway,” she continues, “Maria, this is Alexander Hamilton, he’s the guy I told you about yesterday.”

 

“You dated the treasury secretary before me?”

 

“I wasn’t secretary back then,” you say, helpfully.

 

“What are the candles for?” Maria asks, curiously.

 

“Um, nothing,” you say, shoving them and the lighter deep into your jacket pocket.

 

Eliza looks at you searchingly, raises an eyebrow like she used to always do when-- god, no, stop thinking on the past, it’s over now.

 

“You aren’t still, um,” she begins.

 

“Nothing, I said nothing.”

 

She and Maria exchange glances, and you swallow. Your car is only ten or twenty meters away, you could just run...

 

“So what brings you out here,” says Eliza carefully. “I thought you lived further into the city?”

 

“Oh,” you say, “nothing really. I got in an argument with Jefferson, I guess.” 

 

You just assume they know the background; everyone does.

 

Eliza tilts her head. “What kind of an argument?”

 

“The surreal kind,” you tell her, “where the world closes in on just the room you’re in and you can’t comprehend time outside of that.”

 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she informs you matter-of-factly.

 

“I know what you mean,” says Maria. “When nothing you do seems real or like it’ll have any consequences?” You nod, so she continues. “And you start doubting things you know happened,” you can’t help nodding again, “and your mind shuts down--”

 

“That sounds like hell,” says Eliza.

 

“I’m surprised you don’t know what I’m talking about, Betsey-- fuck, fuck, no wait, what do I even call you now?”

 

“Eliza is fine,” she says.

 

“Okay yeah Eliza,” you continue, despite how weird it feels to be calling her by her first name, “I’m surprised you haven’t ever experienced it. I would’ve thought the experience was mutual.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“When we broke up-- actually no nevermind I’m chickening out,” you say.

 

“Oh,” she says, face softening, “oh. It was like that for you?”

 

“A little,” you allow. “Not too much, since I said no anyways and also I hate talking about my feelings, let’s stop.”

 

And then you hate the way she’s looking at you, all pitying, so you start feeling even more uncomfortable, which Maria picks up on almost immediately. She drags Eliza out of the gas station, thank god.

 

That was... uncomfortable, and you never want to think about it ever again, so you don’t think you will. At least it’s over.

 

You should call Burr back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and there ya go! that's the end. tell me in a comment what you thought?


End file.
